


The Thomas Barrow Show

by Alex51324



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-21 08:34:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 70,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/595676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alex51324/pseuds/Alex51324
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Thomas Barrow Show follows the adventures of Thomas Barrow during series three of Downton Abbey. Find out what Thomas was up to during some of the times when the cameras inexplicably chose to follow those other people who are not Thomas, and what was going through his mind during the times that we did see him. (It is, by the way, not in script format; I just grew attached to the working title.)</p><p>The series is now complete, with 8 episodes!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Episode 1: The Rift Begins

**Author's Note:**

> Rating, content, and warnings: Covers the same territory as the show, including, as the show does, occasional rough language and occasional non-explicit sexual content. I haven't added anything new that needs to be warned for.
> 
> Spoilers: Contains, obviously, massive spoilers for series 3. I planned the episodes so that folks could, if they wanted, read each one after watching the corresponding episode of the real show and not be spoiled for upcoming episodes. Episode breaks appear to be the same for the US airing, except that UK episodes 1&2 and 7&8 have been combined. Additionally, the US broadcast includes some scenes that were deleted from the UK airing. I have chosen not to edit The Thomas Barrow Show to take these scenes into account.
> 
> Note: The fic includes some transcribed dialogue from the show. if you recognize it, it's not mine. 
> 
> Special Thanks To: Shino716 for betaing!

“Listen to them all in there,” Thomas said, indicating the servants’ hall with a jerk of his head. He and O’Brien had come out for an after-dinner smoke, while most of the others were still lounging around the table talking about—what else?—the wedding. “It’s like they’ve all gone wedding-mad.” The closer the day got, the more tightly wound Carson seemed. You’d have thought it was his daughter getting married—or getting crowned Queen of England. 

“And you’re so above it all,” O’Brien responded. “The great Thomas Barrow couldn’t possibly be impressed with a little thing like the marriage of his lordship’s daughter to his lordship’s heir.”

There was something about her tone he didn’t like. “What do you mean by that?”

“Just that you’ve been acting so superior since becoming his lordship’s valet.” She was using her deceptively mild voice, the one she used when she was pretending butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. She never used that voice with him.

“Why shouldn’t I?” he demanded.

He wanted to get things back on their usual blunt and honest footing—where she would tell him what she thought was wrong with him, and they could argue about it—but she just said, “I’m sure I wouldn’t know.”

Stubbing out her cigarette, she went inside, without a backward glance. 

He wasn’t acting superior. Not any more superior than he actually was, at any rate. As valet, he was up with her and Mrs. Hughes now, just under Carson. Maybe it was about him insisting that she call him “Mr. Barrow”—but if she was talking to one of the lower servants, she should. It wouldn’t do for them to get the idea they could treat him with any less respect just because they’d known him when he was a footman. O’Brien would realize that, if she thought about it for even a second. 

They still hadn’t mended fences a few days later, when O’Brien suggested that Carson might consider her nephew as a new footman. The subject was abruptly dropped in favor of that other nine-days’ wonder, Mr. Bates and his legal case and his house, when Anna and Mrs. Hughes came home from London. But the group dispersed not long after, Anna saying she was tired, and Carson and Mrs. Hughes no doubt wanting to go into his pantry and have a good old natter, leaving just Thomas and O’Brien at the table. 

“I could put in a word with his lordship, about the footman position,” he suggested, having decided that he’d let things simmer long enough to make a gesture of apology. Lord Grantham would deputize the final decision to Carson, of course, but if he mentioned Alfred’s name when doing so, that would carry a lot of weight. 

“ _I’ll_ put in a word with her ladyship, thank you very much,” she answered sharply. 

“Suit yourself,” he answered, lighting a cigarette. “What’s he like, your nephew?”

“Young,” she said, lighting one of her own. “And decent, so don’t you be trying any of your tricks.”

Well, that had gone over splendidly. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he said coolly. As valet, he was above any rivalry with footmen. 

“I’m sure you do,” she said. “If he goes home from here a fetching shade of lavender, I’ll never hear the end of it.” 

She’d never believe it, but Thomas really hadn’t known what she meant. And hearing it stung. “You don’t need to worry about that. I wouldn’t touch your beastly nephew with a ten-foot pole.”

“See that you don’t.” 

Before he could come up with a better reply than, _I won’t_ , she had pushed her chair back and left the room, with a rustle of black bombazine. 

The next evening, when dressing Lord Grantham for dinner, Thomas contrived to bring up the subject of the new footman. He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d say, once the issue was raised, but since O’Brien had as much as told him not to, he felt a perverse impulse to do so. 

But when he tentatively broached the subject, his lordship said, “Possibly. Nothing’s been decided yet. I daresay Carson won’t want to think about it until after the wedding.”

So Carson had said, but O’Brien clearly hoped to speed up the process. Being foiled in it wouldn’t do much for her temper—but she _had_ insisted she could take care of it herself. See if he’d try and help, now. “I see, my lord,” he said. 

“I know, that means you’ll have to wait at table for the wedding breakfast,” Lord Grantham added as he put on his dress shirt. “I realize it’s beneath the dignity of a valet, but we’ll need all hands on deck.”

“Of course, my lord. I don’t mind,” Thomas lied. After the fuss they’d made over Bates not being able to wait at table when needed, it would look well for him to show himself as not only capable but willing. 

“Good,” said Lord Grantham, and changed the subject. “I’ll be going down to London tomorrow. Just for the day, so I shan’t need you to go with me. But I’ll need to be ready to get the first train.”

“Yes, my lord.” That would mean getting up earlier than he usually did. In fact, he’d probably be dressing his lordship just as the servants’ hall breakfast was being laid. 

On the other hand, he’d be on his own recognizance all day. Pity he hadn’t had more notice; he could have come up with some way to make the most of it.

As it was, after cadging a late breakfast out of Daisy, he could find nothing to do but sit in the servants’ hall, as he normally would. He thought idly about going for a walk, but it looked like it might rain. 

His patience was rewarded when, just after lunch, the infamous nephew showed up. A long, tall stream of piss, one of the Sergeants from Thomas’s army days would have called him. And he wasn’t elegantly tall, either—he was all knees and elbows and beaky nose. O’Brien had clearly wasted her breath warning Thomas off him; Thomas wouldn’t have been interested if he’d been Prince of Wales.

Still, it was some cheek he had, showing up here when he’d only had his name put forward as a candidate the day before yesterday. There was no chance at all that Carson had asked him to come for an interview. What in God’s name was he thinking? Carson wouldn’t take well to presumption like that, no matter whose nephew he was. Thomas sat back to watch the fireworks. 

But to his surprise, when Carson was fetched, he gave every appearance of having been expecting him. Certainly not best pleased to see him, but resigned. He grilled the beanpole—Alfred, he was called—about his experience, which was far too scanty to qualify him to be a footman at a place like Downton. Carson clearly thought the same, but O’Brien said he wasn’t even being interviewed—he already had the job!

Thomas had been twice as qualified as he was—not to mention better-looking, and that mattered a lot for a footman—and he’d been left waiting on tenterhooks for two days after his interview. It was sheer nepotism and nothing but. He couldn’t believe Carson had agreed to it. Or his lordship, for that matter. They weren’t wrapped around O’Brien’s little finger the way her ladyship was. 

Finally, Carson dismissed Alfred, saying, “Your aunt will _hopefully_ find you a livery that fits.”

“Best of luck with that,” Thomas muttered, after Alfred and O’Brien had gone. They had better not ask him for any help with alterations, not after what O’Brien had said. 

Carson turned a mild glare on him. Typical—when something went wrong, of course Thomas got blamed for it, whether he had anything to do with it or not. 

“When did that happen?” Thomas asked. “The last I heard, nothing was going to be decided until after the wedding.”

“Her ladyship thought it best,” Mr. Carson said coldly. “And it isn’t any of your concern.” He left the room. 

Thomas would have thought that any new topic of conversation would make a welcome change from the wedding, but after listening to the maids gossiping about Alfred for most of the afternoon, he rapidly revised his opinion. Having the arrival of a lanky, po-faced hotel waiter treated like the second coming of Christ was far worse. They ought to have been embarrassed, the way they would fawn over anything in trousers. Particularly Daisy, not even two years a widow. 

Once the table was cleared after tea—Thomas was surprised not to see Alfred swilling his out of his saucer—O’Brien brought down her sewing box, and she and Alfred got to work on his livery. 

“They make the trouser legs so they’re easy to take in and let out,” O’Brien explained, turning one inside-out to show the beanpole. “Take out the hem, there, and then we’ll pin them up to get the right length—they should break just above your instep.”

As Alfred started hacking away at the hems with the scissors, O’Brien went on, “The jacket’s the hard part, so I’ll do that, but you should pay attention to what I’m doing. If you’re to be a valet one day, you’ll have to know how to make alterations.”

“That’s a bit premature, isn’t it?” Thomas said. “He doesn’t even know how to be a footman yet.”

Alfred looked over at him and said earnestly, “I know I’m new, Mr. Barrow, but I want to learn all I can.”

Thomas decided that young Alfred was, if anything, even more sickeningly earnest than William had been. And the fact that he might be putting it on—he was O’Brien’s nephew, after all—somehow made it worse. “You might want to concentrate on what you need to know for the job you have.”

“Don’t mind Thomas,” O’Brien said. “The only enjoyment he has in life is belittling other people.”

There was nothing much Thomas could say to that—anything he _did_ say would only seem to prove that she was right. He contented himself with glaring, and flicking through the newspaper in a pointed manner, as O’Brien and Alfred bent their heads over his livery jacket and nattered on about lifting buttons and adjusting seams, trying to work out the best way to make it fit Alfred’s skinny shoulders and long, ape-like arms. 

No doubt they’d make a hash of it. O’Brien was a lady’s maid; she didn’t know anything about men’s clothes. He was the expert on that subject, and he was sitting right there. But neither of them so much as asked him what he thought. It would serve them right if they spoiled it, and Alfred got a whacking great tailor’s bill taken out of his first pay packet—if he was even allowed to stay on at all. 

Thomas didn’t get to see how it turned out, because Mr. Carson came in before they’d finished. “His lordship has returned from London,” he informed Thomas. “He’s gone straight up, so your holiday is over.”

On his way up to the dressing room, Thomas decided he’d better do a little digging. He’d have sworn that his lordship had no idea there was a new footman expected. But Lord Grantham barely nodded at him, looking weary and distracted, before saying he wanted a bath, so Thomas decided it was better not to trouble him just yet, and went to draw it for him. 

While his lordship was in the bath, Thomas busied himself brushing out his town suit. Being on trains all day was a grubby business, and if you didn’t get the dirt out promptly, the aroma would linger. As he did so, it occurred to him to wonder why Lord Grantham had gone to London in the first place. To go down on the first train and be back by dinner didn’t leave much time for whatever he’d gone there to do. Lunch, perhaps—but it would have to be a very important lunch to make a trip like that. If it had been anyone else, Thomas might have suspected a mistress, but Lord Grantham was devoted to her ladyship. A business matter, then. But estate business would have been handled here, on the estate, not in London. And what other business did he have?

The thought of business and London led him to Bates. Could it be something to do with him? His legal case, or the house Anna was trying to sell? Maybe. His lordship had already shown he was willing to go to a surprising amount of trouble on behalf of Bates, and whatever the business was, it had clearly been urgent. 

When Lord Grantham came back from his bath, Thomas decided to try doing a little digging about that, as well, but he got nowhere. All he said, when Thomas remarked on how brief the trip had been, was “It was sufficient.”

Sufficient for what? He certainly couldn’t ask. If his lordship wanted to say, he would have done so. He moved on to his second theme. “The new footman arrived while you were gone.”

Lord Grantham turned to look at him, blatant surprise on his face. So he _hadn’t_ known. “What?” he asked.

Thomas decided to ignore his surprise, as if it were unthinkable that such a thing could happen without his lordship’s knowledge—even though it obviously had. “Yes. He got the cable this morning and came right over.” So the maids had said, at any rate—apparently it had been discussed at breakfast, which he’d missed. As he helped him into his waistcoat, Thomas added, “Very eager—and very tall.”

“But when—” Thomas thought that he was about to say outright that he hadn’t known, giving Thomas an opportunity to drag O’Brien’s scheming into the light, but instead he finished, “—never mind.”

So he couldn’t say anything more about _that_ , either. Thomas had thought that being valet would give him a much clearer view of what went on in the household, but it seemed like _every_ time something interesting happened, his lordship refused to talk about it. O’Brien probably would have pressed her ladyship on it in some subtle way, but Thomas didn’t quite dare try. 

Once they were finished in the dressing room, Thomas decided to go out for a smoke and think over what little he’d learned. Alfred would be getting ready for his debut; maybe, with him occupied, O’Brien would come down off her high horse and talk to him again. 

But when he got downstairs, he found her in the corridor with Alfred, treating him to an encouraging speech, all about how he had the “skill and the willingness.” 

Skill and willingness to do what, she didn’t specify. “But not the experience,” Thomas noted as he sailed past. 

Alfred said he was right, proving that he had at least some sense, but O’Brien responded with some nonsense about how he wasn’t “vain, like Thomas.” As if that had anything to do with being a footman. Vanity was a positive _advantage_ in a footman. The whole point was to make the house look stylish; if you didn’t know that, you might as _well_ be a hotel waiter. 

He decided to pass through the kitchen on his way out, and found Daisy shoving onion peels into a bowl as if they’d insulted her mother. Finally, someone who wasn’t trying to rub everyone’s face in how happy they were—and Daisy was all right, really, now that she’d gotten over her silly pash on him. “What’s the matter with you?” 

“I’m fed up,” Daisy said. “They promised me promotion. She said they’d get a new kitchen maid, and I’d be Mrs. Patmore’s assistant.”

He remembered something about that, now that she mentioned it—Daisy had been bubbling over with happiness about it a month or so ago, but nothing seemed to have changed. It was a bit like what had happened to him before the war, when he’d been expecting to be promoted to valet and then Bates had snatched it out from under him. “Well, if they really promised, you should withdraw your services,” he said. There had been nothing he could do, since they hadn’t promised _him_. They’d just gone on letting him valet his lordship and saying nothing about it. He hadn’t been able to fight back, but Daisy could.

Daisy looked at him with a typically gormless expression. “What d’you mean—like go on strike?”

Yes, a lot like that. “But don’t say I put you up to it.” That was all he needed, to get a reputation for fomenting unrest. He hurried outside before Mrs. Patmore could see them talking and get suspicious.

He’d been outside for a while, finished with his cigarette but in no hurry to go back in, when Molesley came up from Crawley House. Thomas straightened up—he might be on some official errand—but leaned against the wall again when Molesley ventured a remark about how England was going to play Australia for the Ashes again for the first time since the war. “I don’t know that I think much of our chances,” he said, and went on to list a number of star players who had been killed or wounded in the war. 

Clearly, he had just come up to bore them all with his conversation, and not for any real purpose. Thomas’s side of the conversation consisted, as conversations about cricket with Molesley normally did, of nodding along and occasionally attempting to cram a word or two in edgewise. He’d follow the matches in the newspaper when they actually happened—he liked cricket as much as the next bloke—but he didn’t see much point in getting excited about it now. 

After a year or two of that, Molesley said, “It seems I won’t be coming up to the big house after the wedding after all.”

Now that was a subject Thomas was actually interested in. Molesley had mentioned more than once how he was looking forward to joining the household as Mr. Matthew’s valet; Thomas had assumed it was _fait accompli_. “No?”

“It seems that Mr. Matthew sees me more as a butler who helps out as a valet,” he explained. “So I’m to stay on with Mrs. Crawley.”

With a shrug, Thomas said, “Butler at Crawley House or second valet here; it isn’t much of a promotion.” A butler would outrank a valet, but only if the households were of similar size. Downton’s staff was so much larger than Crawley House’s that Molesley was barely equal to a footman here. If that. 

The dig seemed to sail right over Molesley’s bald head. “It gets a bit lonesome down there, just me and Mrs. Byrd. I thought working in the big house would suit me much better.”

“I don’t know how you have time to be lonesome, as much time as you spend here,” Thomas said. “Does he have someone else in mind for valet?” If the new man was more experienced, he might try to set himself up as head valet, even though Thomas was valet to the current Lord Grantham. He’d have to be prepared to defend his position.

“No—he hasn’t even advertised yet. I’ll look after him up until the day of the wedding, but after that--” He shrugged. 

“He’s going to move in up here with no valet?”

“He spoke of living more simply,” Molesley explained. 

“Meaning he isn’t going to hire one at all? Mr. Carson would never stand for that.” But he couldn’t _force_ Mr. Matthew to engage a valet. No, instead he’d force Thomas to valet him. Bloody hell.

It wasn’t that he didn’t have the skill and experience to do it, he assured himself hastily. He’d been temporary valet while still fulfilling his duties as footman, and that was more work than managing two gentlemen. But they would often need looking after at the same time, so he’d either have to rush back and forth between the two dressing rooms, or leave one waiting while he attended the other. They’d probably suggest he dress one before the gong, but whichever one that was would never remember to come up early. It would be a shambles, and he’d be blamed for it. 

Molesley said something about how he wouldn’t stand for it either, but what could they do? Thomas nodded and went on thinking. 

Likely Mr. Matthew would be fed up with it before long, and would engage a valet. But what if Lord Grantham got fed up first, and used the opportunity to hire a different valet, bequeathing _him_ to Mr. Matthew? It seemed a very real danger. His lordship had never favored him the way he did Mr. Bates. He had, in fact, told Thomas he was being given a _trial_ as valet—a trial, when he’d already valeted him for nearly a year if you added it all up—and had never officially said that the trial was over and he was engaged for the job. He could drop him down to second valet, with whatever new man he found as head valet, and Thomas wouldn’t even be able to say he’d been promised otherwise. 

“But I suppose you won’t mind looking after him for a while,” Molesley said. “He’s a pleasant young gentleman.”

Thomas glanced at him sharply. True, Mr. Matthew would be more enjoyable to dress and undress than Lord Grantham. But he shouldn’t be thinking like that—and, more importantly, neither should anyone else. If he valeted Mr. Matthew without complaint, people might wonder if that was why. If Thomas didn’t mind valeting him because he was younger and more handsome. “I mind,” he said. 

It was likely unavoidable that he’d valet Mr. Matthew for a little while. If he came back from honeymoon without a valet, someone would have to do it. And he couldn’t complain about it to any of them upstairs, not if he was going to show the proper team spirit. But he’d make absolutely sure that his lordship wasn’t inconvenienced—if anyone had to be, let it be Mr. Matthew. And he’d make no secret downstairs that he resented the extra duty. That ought to cover everything. “But as we’re short on male staff at the moment, I expect I’ll have to manage as best I can,” he finished smoothly. 

Molesley started making noises about going in to see if he might find a cup of tea, so Thomas hurried in ahead of him, so that he could be the one to make the announcement that Molesley wouldn’t be joining them permanently, and to get started on making a point of how he was not at all happy about valeting Mr. Matthew.

#

After dinner, Elsie joined Mr. Carson—not Charles, no, never that—in his pantry for a glass of sherry and their usual session of catching up on the days’ events. “Was young Alfred really as bad as all that?” she asked, getting right to the most important news of the day. 

“I’m sure he’s entirely able to meet the standard of service expected in a public dining room,” Mr. Carson said, “but not in a stately home. _Scooping_ food onto her dowager ladyship’s plate as if we were planning to charge her for an extra portion.” He shook his head. 

“It’s only his first day,” she reminded him. If it had been up to her, she might have suggested Mr. Carson carry on without him for this one last evening, as he’d been doing since the war, and let Alfred watch and learn. But of course, she couldn’t tell Mr. Carson that. 

“He did alter his behavior once he was corrected,” Carson said, softening slightly. 

“Well, then. That’s a good sign. Perhaps he’ll improve rapidly.”

“Perhaps. If we can keep his aunt from exerting too much influence over him. When I said I wanted a replacement footman, I did not have in mind younger and less experienced version of Thomas.”

“Then you’ll have to see to it that you are more of an influence on him than she is,” she said tartly. “Thomas was never on the side of the angels, but being taken under her wing didn’t help matters one bit.” The image only fit Miss O’Brien if one imagined the limb in question as being leathery and bat-like. But she had been willing to listen to his many grievances, all the while telling him God-knew-what. Whatever would advance her own position in the household, most likely. Elsie would never have allowed it for one of her girls. But Mr. Carson’s attention was focused on the house and the family; to him, a problem wasn’t a problem unless it was in danger of coming to the notice of the family. 

“She _is_ his aunt,” Carson pointed out. “I can hardly forbid them to speak.”

“No, but you can encourage him to speak to you instead if he has a problem.”

“I scarcely have time to train him for his duties; I certainly do not have time for that.” 

Well, then, she decided, he had only himself to blame if Alfred _did_ turn out to be a younger version of Thomas. She changed the subject. “What are you going to do about a valet for Mr. Matthew?”

“I won’t have Thomas—excuse me, _Mr. Barrow_ —doing it, no matter what he thinks.”

“I haven’t heard that his lordship has had any complaints,” she said, teasing. She knew exactly what Mr. Carson’s objection was, and she also knew he wouldn’t mention it to her. 

“That is not the same thing at all. He’ll have to be persuaded to hire someone. Perhaps by the time they return I’ll have been able to hire another footman—an experienced one,” he added optimistically. “Then _he_ can see to Mr. Matthew in the interim.” He nodded. “Yes, and if I get a _proper_ first footman, he can train Alfred, as well.”

“That would solve all of your problems, wouldn’t it?” she observed.

“ _Not_ all of them. It seems that Lady Sybil will be coming for the wedding after all.”

“Oh, it’ll be lovely to have her in the house again,” Elsie said. 

“ _And_ Mr. Branson.”

“Of course; you can hardly expect her to travel without her husband.”

“I’m surprised he can get away from his _job_.” He said the word “job” as if it were dirty. “But he can, so he’ll be dining with the family, and sitting with them in the church.”

“Naturally,” she said. “We can hardly have Lady Sybil’s husband eat in the servants’ hall.”

Carson continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “And will he need a valet, as well? I doubt very much he dresses for dinner in _Dublin_ , but if he wants to dine with the family, he most certainly will here.”

Privately, Elsie thought he had best not present it to Mr. Branson in precisely those terms—he might be just as glad of an excuse _not_ to dine with his in-laws. “Well, I suppose Thomas can dress _him_ ,” she suggested slyly. She was sure that Mr. Branson was more than capable of fending off an amorous advance from his former colleague, should such a thing be necessary. 

“Hmph!” was Carson’s only response. 

#

Thomas took a certain amount of satisfaction in watching as the gossip surrounding Alfred came to focus more on his latest blunder than his looks or who he might fancy. In addition to his mistake in the dining room the first night, on his second day Alfred lit a fire in the library without opening the flue, thus filling the entire room with smoke, and dropped the drawing room sofa on a maid’s foot while moving it for her to clean behind. On his third, he answered the telephone in what Carson deemed an excessively familiar manner, as well as neglecting to take down an accurate message. And apparently he was making quite a habit of addressing members of the family without being spoken to—greeting them when he came into the room or met them in the corridors, for example. 

Thomas was less satisfied, however, when Mr. Carson called him into his pantry and presented him with a long list of chores: polishing silver, bringing down the extra china and crystal, _washing_ the extra china and crystal, and so on. “I’m not a footman anymore,” Thomas reminded him, wondering if he’d missed an important announcement—like that O’Brien had somehow gotten Alfred promoted to valet. 

“I realize that, Mr. Barrow,” Carson said. “But I can hardly ask _Alfred_ to do these things—not when he can’t carry anything heavier than a tray without dropping it. And his lordship informed me that you would be pleased to assist with the wedding.”

That wasn’t what he’d said at all—saying he didn’t mind waiting at table was a far cry from saying he was pleased to be Carson’s dogsbody again for the duration. But he couldn’t protest without calling his lordship a liar. He forced a smile. “Right. Of course, Mr. Carson, I’m happy to help.”

Seething with resentment, he hopped to it. He didn’t have a moment to himself until just before tea, when he went out into the courtyard for a smoke and found that he didn’t have it to himself at all—O’Brien was there, along with Alfred. 

She was smoking; Alfred wasn’t. He was just standing there watching her do it. All right for some, Thomas supposed. Lighting up, he said, “So this is what you do all day. Must be nice not being trusted to do your own job.”

“What?” Alfred said intelligently.

“You know what _I’ve_ been doing all day?” Thomas listed some of it. “You probably don’t know, but those are a footman’s duties. Which I’ve been doing because Mr. Carson knows you’d cock it up.”

“I’m sure that isn’t why,” O’Brien interjected. “What Thomas has _forgotten_ is that it’s quite usual for a valet to assist the footmen on special occasions.” 

“That’s not what Mr. Carson said,” Thomas informed him. “He said you couldn’t bring the crystal down without dropping it, so I’d have to do it.”

“It was one sofa I dropped!” Alfred said. “And it’s slippery—I’d like to see anyone lift it without dropping it.”

“If you’d been here when I was a footman, that’s exactly what you’d have seen,” Thomas answered. That wasn’t entirely true—he had dropped it once. There was a knack to it. But he’d had the sense to tell William that he’d burn his picture of his mum if he told anyone, and William had had the sense to keep his mouth shut. So it might as well not have happened. 

“He’s never made a mistake, our Thomas,” O’Brien said in a meaningful tone. “It’s such a shame we can’t all be like him.” She dropped her fag-end, putting it out with her toe, and went inside, Alfred trailing after her like a puppy. 

Thomas wasted a minute or two trying to sort out what she had meant. It had the sound of a warning—but what mistakes had he made, that she knew about, and everybody else didn’t? Sure, they were mates—had been mates—but he wasn’t stupid enough to confide in her. The only things he’d done wrong that she knew about were things she had personally put him up to; she could hardly grass on him for any of those.

Deciding she had just been trying to put the wind up him, he went in to tea. Anna and Mrs. Hughes were talking about preparing a room for Lady Sybil, who—he gathered after a few moments of listening—was arriving tomorrow. It was the first he’d heard of it, but nobody else seemed surprised. 

Of course, he’d been too busy to listen to gossip lately. Not long ago, he could have relied on O’Brien to fill him in about any really important news, but, clearly, not anymore. Likely Alfred had heard about Lady Sybil before he did, and he didn’t even know her. 

Lady Sybil was his favorite among the family, and while he certainly couldn’t claim to be her favorite—that honour went to Branson, surely—he was as close to being her favorite as he’d come to being anyone’s, the way Anna and Carson were both Lady Mary’s, and Bates was Lord Grantham’s. Only because the war had made them, for a brief time, equals. They’d worked side-by-side, traded shifts when the family particularly wanted her up at the house, and even talked, sometimes, over a cup of tea or sitting up through the night by some dying soldier. She’d insisted on being called Nurse Crawley at the hospital, not wanting to be set apart from the other nurses. He’d liked that about her, as well as the way she’d cheerfully done her share of the scut work, refusing to just swan about in her nursing uniform holding officers’ hands and putting cool cloths on foreheads. 

The gulf between them had widened again when they’d left the hospital—even though he was still Sergeant Barrow, being in Downton’s walls had made it impossible for her to be plain Nurse Crawley and not Lady Sybil. But he still thought of her fondly, even though she’d married a complete oik like Branson. 

“Which train is she coming in on?” one of the maids asked. 

“The three o’clock,” Mrs. Hughes said. “They’ll be here for tea.”

“It’ll be nice to see her again,” Thomas remarked. 

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but she won’t be having tea down here,” O’Brien said. Alfred laughed, and so did one of the maids.

Before Thomas could protest that of course he knew that; he hadn’t meant it that way, Carson said, “Yes, as far as this household is concerned, the marriage has elevated Mr. Branson, rather than the reverse. Both Lady Sybil and her husband will be received with the family—and the situation is not to be taken as an excuse for any over-familiarity.”

Thomas burned with humiliation the rest of the way through tea.

#

That evening, Mr. Carson poured sherry with obvious rancor, several times opening his mouth to speak, then sighing and saying nothing. Finally, Elsie said, “What on Earth is the matter?”

“Mr. Barrow,” he said, between clenched teeth.

“What, all this just because he said he’d like to see Lady Sybil? They were workmates, in a way, you know.”

“No,” Carson said. “Not that. Although if he dares to presume that there exists an acquaintance between them simply because she felt a duty to serve her country, I shall not be able to keep my temper. Earlier today, I expressed a modicum of frustration with Alfred’s progress, and no sooner had I finished speaking than he ran to Miss O’Brien and told her what I had said.”

“I wonder why he did that?”

“I wonder why I thought he wouldn’t. Perhaps I assumed that since he is so eager to be considered a senior member of this household, he would act with the discretion befitting that status.”

“They’ve been quarreling for over a week,” Elsie informed him. And they certainly hadn’t seemed to have mended fences by dinner. 

“What about?”

“Young Alfred, I think,” she said. 

“Why?” Carson asked, with an expression of alarm. “What’s he done?”

“I believe Mr. Barrow considers Alfred unqualified for his position,” she said. “And Miss O’Brien disagrees.” 

“I’d have thought he’d agree with whatever she thought.”

“I expect she thought that as well,” Elsie said. And she had reacted to Thomas’s display of independence just about as well as one might expect she would. “A fracture in their alliance may turn out to be the best thing for everyone, but I do wish they had chosen a different bone of contention. I daresay Alfred has enough on his plate without being caught in the middle between those two.” 

“He does indeed,” Carson said repressively. 

#

The next day, Thomas stayed away from the lineup welcoming Lady Sybil back to Downton. Mr. Carson did not insist that the full household turn out, though Thomas noted that many of the maids chose to do so. He didn’t know whether he would have gone or not, had he not been publically mocked about their supposed friendship. As much as he liked Lady Sybil, turning out to welcome a chauffeur as a guest was, he felt, beneath the dignity of a valet. But now, certainly, he couldn’t go without being accused of…something. 

Miss O’Brien was holding court in the servants’ hall, so he retreated to the kitchen, where Daisy and Mrs. Patmore and the rest bustled around getting the tea ready. The kitchen staff weren’t allowed to join in welcoming Lady Sybil even if they wanted to, so they were putting their feelings into making the tea special, cutting the finger sandwiches into shapes and icing designs onto the little cakes. 

There were a lot of bits and pieces lying around, trimmings from the sandwiches and cakes where the designs came out crooked. If he was still a footman, he’d have taken full advantage, but cadging tidbits from the kitchen was also beneath the dignity of a valet. Much as he wished it wasn’t. Mrs. Patmore and the others had _not_ made much of an effort on the servants’ lunch, and he was a bit peckish. 

Mrs. Parmore walked around the table, inspecting everybody’s work. “Slice the bread thinly, Madge; they’re not farm hands!” She picked up a tiered cake platter and returned past him. “What are you doing here, Thomas? Did you want to take the tea up, so you can see Lady Sybil?”

Right. That was what he needed, Mrs. bloody Patmore picking up where O’Brien had left off. “No,” he said.

“Then get out from underfoot; you’re worse than a cat!”

Stung, Thomas retreated. He’d go up to the dressing room; no one would bother him there. He could find something to do—arrange his lordship’s neckties by colour, if nothing else. 

To his surprise, he ran into none other than Lady Sybil in the corridor. “Mr. Barrow,” she said, smiling as if she were meeting a friend on the street. “How nice to see you looking so well.”

“Thank you. You as well—my lady.” It felt strange to be calling her that again, after it had been “Nurse Crawley” for so long. 

“I understand Papa’s finally made you his valet. I hope you like it.”

“It suits me,” he said. She knew he’d had other plans, for after the war. It was one of the things they’d talked about, how they both wanted to get out of the stifling hothouse of Downton and find something larger. Somehow, he couldn’t quite resent the fact that she had managed it, while he had not. 

“It’s a shame you couldn’t go on with being an orderly, but I suppose there weren’t so many opportunities, after the war.”

“No,” he said. “Just asylum attendant, and I didn’t much fancy that.”

“I imagine not. I’ve had to give notice myself. It was difficult enough finding a place that would take me on as a married woman, but once baby begins to show….” She smoothed a hand over the front of her dress. “I can always take it back up again once the children are a bit older.”

Thomas wasn’t quite sure what to say about that. The idea of working as something you could put aside and take up as it suited you was alien to his experience. Instead he said, “Congratulations,” and nodded toward her belly. “On the blessed event.”

“Thank you. I’m quite looking forward to it—motherhood, my next adventure.”

“I’m sure you’ll be a good one.” Carson would doubtless call that over-familiarity—but he wasn’t here, and Lady Sybil wouldn’t tell him. 

“I hope so.” She looked over his shoulder. “Oh, there’s Tom—I’d better go down with him, to make sure Papa doesn’t eat him alive. It was lovely seeing you again, Mr. Barrow.”

That would show them, Thomas thought, if only anyone had seen it. All he had said was that it would be nice to see her—and now he’d seen her, and it _was nice_. Not only that, but she thought it was, too. There wasn’t anything more to it than that—she’d probably be just as glad to see several of the others—but he’d never said there was. 

Going into the dressing room, he gathered up some collars that wanted pressing, and took them downstairs to do them. While he worked, he waited for someone to try to tease him about Lady Sybil again, so that he could say, “Oh, we’ve already spoken, thank you.”

But no one did. No one said much of anything to him at all, until Carson and Mrs. Hughes came in. Thomas wondered what they could want—he hadn’t done anything for them to scold him for. Some more wedding work, maybe?

“Mr. Barrow,” Mrs. Hughes said, “we were hoping that you’d be willing to help make Mr. Branson ready for dinner. I expect everyone will be a bit more comfortable if he at least looks the part.”

Unbelievable. It was extra work they wanted him for, but not to do with the wedding. Or not directly, anyway. “You want me to valet Branson,” he said flatly. 

“If you don’t mind,” she said. 

If his lordship had asked him, he’d have had to say he didn’t mind at all. But if Carson was asking him, and not telling, that meant he knew he couldn’t make Thomas do it. “I’m sorry; I won’t. And that’s flat.” 

“Then you’ll have to do it, Mr. Carson,” Mrs. Hughes said.

“I’m not dressing a chauffeur,” Carson answered.

Mrs. Hughes made what Thomas thought was a very parsing argument, about how Branson wasn’t a chauffeur anymore, and Carson wouldn’t really need to _dress_ him, but Carson held firm. 

He didn’t capitulate when Mrs. Hughes said that Alfred would have to do it, either. Thomas might almost have wavered—Alfred had no business valeting anyone; on that point he and Mr. Carson were agreed—but if Carson wouldn’t lower himself in that way, Thomas wouldn’t, either. 

As it turned out, the whole thing was a tempest in a teapot—Branson didn’t dress for dinner at all, and had, in fact, nothing to dress for dinner _in_. He went into the dining room in the same suit he’d been wearing when Thomas saw him in the corridor, train grubbiness and all. 

Fortunately, the spectacle of Branson dining with his betters captured the attention of all, and he was the main subject of conversation at dinner. Alfred displayed his complete ignorance of everything by saying, “I found them very down on him,” as if they would be anything _else_. Not even Branson himself, Thomas thought, was dim enough to think that they’d be anything other than “down on him.”

Then Branson himself came down—“to say hello,” he said. Mr. Carson stood up, just as if a member of the family had come into the servants’ hall. The rest of them had to copy him, but Thomas took his time about it. Despite the fact that he “just wanted to say hello,” and he’d said it, Branson stayed there in the doorway for ages, talking about this and that and the wedding and _Bates_ , while the rest of them watched their dinners get cold. 

After he’d finally left, and let them finish their meal in peace, Thomas took what was left of his mug of cider outside for a smoke. If he’d been trying to butter up O’Brien, he’d have let her drink the rest of it—the women only got water or milk, unless it was such a special occasion that Carson let the rest of them at the wine. But now, if she wanted cider, she’d have to bully it out of Alfred. He was through. 

The kitchen door creaked open, casting a thin triangle of light into the courtyard. But it was Daisy coming out to dump a bowl of scraps into the bin, not O’Brien. “You’re still doing that?” he asked her. “Thought you were an assistant cook.”

“Nothing’s changed,” Daisy said. She paused, holding the bowl propped against her hip. “I’ve been thinking, about what you said.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you really think it’s a good idea? Goin’ on strike?”

A good idea? Maybe not, but it would give them all something to talk about other than Bates, the wedding, Branson, or him. “Why not? If they hadn’t said you’d get the promotion, you’d have looked for a place elsewhere, as an assistant cook. Right?”

“Well…maybe,” Daisy said. 

“There you go. They kept you here with a dishonest representation. Saying one thing and doing something else.” 

“They did, didn’t they?” Daisy nodded firmly. 

“Right. And you’re not going to take it lying down.” 

“I’m not,” she agreed. “Thank you, Thomas—I mean, Mr. Barrow.”

So that was what it took for him to get a little appreciation around this place—telling a kitchen maid to go on strike. Fine. 

The next day, the Greys were expected to dinner. Lord Merton, Lady Merton, and Lord Grey—or, as Thomas had called him during Sybil’s London Season, back before the war, “Larry.” Thomas hadn’t liked him much at the time—he’d been stinging from the Duke’s betrayal, and hoping to recapture the magic of that earlier summer, but Larry hadn’t even bothered to pretend that he was in love with Thomas, nor Thomas with him. And he hadn’t been nearly as inventive as the Duke, his entire repertoire confined to two acts that Thomas didn’t particularly care for. 

Thomas wasn’t much given to introspection, and had no use at all for the idea of shame, but he felt something like it on the rare occasions that he thought back to Larry. The business with the Duke was embarrassing, because of how stupid he’d been, like a housemaid in a sentimental novel falling from grace because she’d believed the son of the house’s honeyed lies of love and marriage. And thoughts of Edward left him sad, for everything they’d never had—everything that he didn’t even know for sure Edward had wanted, but that he’d imagined, quietly, to himself, in those days. But when he thought of Larry, he felt a sort of twisting in his gut that he couldn’t explain. He didn’t think it was disgust—the way he was wasn’t disgusting, no matter what anyone thought. But something like it. 

He spent most of the day afraid that Mr. Carson would say that since there were guests, he had to help wait at table. He might just about be able to handle that, Thomas thought, but if Larry managed to corner him—on the way to the drawing room, or something—and suggest they renew their liaison, he might punch him. Or cry. Or, even worse, accept. He wondered if he ought to become ill, just to make certain the situation wouldn’t arise. But as the day wore on and Carson said nothing about it, it became clear that just for once, something was going to go his way, and he could get through the entire evening without so much as seeing Larry Grey’s face. 

On his way up to the dressing room, after the gong went, he met O’Brien in the corridor. She met his eyes, for the first time in days. She knew about Larry, and God, if she wanted to talk about him, he would be sick…. “I’ve no time to talk,” he said. 

“His lordship’s not come up yet.” 

No excuse, then, unless he wanted to look a coward. He turned to face her, there in the corridor, instead of ducking into one or the other of the dressing rooms with her, as he might have in the old days. “Well? What is it?”

In her butter-wouldn’t-melt voice, she said, “I was hoping you could help young Alfred find his way about.”

Unbelievable. She had to know he had other things on his mind, today of all days—and why wasn’t she afraid of him corrupting her precious nephew anymore? “As a footman, you mean,” he said, to buy himself time to think through the angles. Maybe he ought to agree—it would reestablish their friendship, with him having the upper hand. But he certainly didn’t want to seem too eager. 

Her face assumed a _Soul’s Awakening_ sort of look. “As a valet.”

There was no possible response to that suggestion that did not involve obscenity. Thomas turned to go. 

O’Brien followed. “He’s looking after Mr. Branson now. Though I daresay a chauffeur can dress himself. But you could tell him what he needs to know. Give him an advantage.”

Didn’t Alfred have enough advantages already? “Why? What’s the rush?”

“You’ve heard Mr. Matthew has turned down Mr. Molesley.”

The woman had a hell of a nerve. Asking him to help Alfred do him out of his own job? How stupid did she think he was? “Blimey. You don’t want much. Can you remember what I had to go through to become a valet?”

“Of course. I watched it, didn’t I?”

She certainly had. Watched, and at the time he may have been foolish enough to be grateful. But clearly there was a lot more she could have done—and was doing now, for _Alfred_. “But young Alfred is to make the great leap in one bound?” He paused, with his hand on the doorknob to his lordship’s dressing room. “Well, I’m sorry, Miss O’Brien, but I’m not convinced. If you’ll excuse me.” 

That was it, then. Their friendship was well and truly shattered now. At least he had been the one to strike the killing blow, not she. 

If, for the rest of the evening, he felt a strange pressure behind his eyelids to accompany the twisting in his stomach, he blamed both on Larry Grey. 

The next day, Thomas half-expected the servants’ hall to be full of the news of their rift, but instead, of course—as always—the talk was all about them upstairs. Lady Mary’s going-away costume had come from the dressmaker, and Anna was the center of attention as she described it to anyone who would listen—as nearly the entire female staff would. “It’s a very straight cut,” she explained. “Almost masculine, but it’s got an asymmetrical neckline and five buttons down the front of the jacket. She wears it with a blue hat, with a feather.”

Who _cared_? And if they did, they could read about it in the newspaper the day after tomorrow—doubtless, the Society page would devote a full column to every detail of the wedding. Thomas could almost have written the article himself, he’d already heard so much about the dresses, the flowers, the cake, the music, and everything else. 

And it wasn’t as if he could get in on any of the action. O’Brien could talk about what her ladyship was going to wear, and even Molesley put his oar in about Mrs. Crawley’s dress, but his lordship would be wearing a morning coat exactly like the one every other father of a bride wore. Thomas had already brushed and pressed it. 

The other excitement of the day was Mrs. Levinson’s arrival. For her, Carson insisted on all hands on deck—everyone fit to be seen by the quality, at least. To Thomas’s disgust, that included Alfred, who was given the task of carrying Mrs. Levinson’s suitcases. 

Thomas didn’t envy him that. She had visited twice when he was footman, and her cases were heavy. The trunks, which would follow later, were even worse—she seemed to pack as though she were leaving civilization entirely. 

Still, she was a sharp old bird. Things were livelier upstairs when she was about. On her previous visits, he’d enjoyed telling the others about some of the more outrageous things she’d said at dinner. Now, he supposed, Alfred would get to do that—if he had the mother-wit to recognize what was outrageous enough to be interesting and what wasn’t. He probably wouldn’t. 

Her lady’s maid was a plain little thing, a Miss Reed. In earlier days, he and O’Brien had had many a conversation about the deficiencies of visiting ladies’ maids, and he was sure she’d find a great deal to criticize in Miss Reed. But he supposed Alfred would be the one to hear that, too. 

Not that he cared. 

The introduction of Miss Reed into the servants’ hall caused a reshuffling of seating arrangements, but Thomas made sure that he kept his new place, between Anna and Mrs. Hughes. 

“Mrs. Hughes, I wanted to tell you,” Anna said, “it seems I’ll be going to France with Lady Mary and Mr. Matthew after all. Mr. Bates convinced me it would be best.”

“Good,” said Carson. “It was very kind of Lady Mary to give you the option of remaining near your husband, but I never liked the idea of her going abroad with a _temporary_ lady’s maid.”

“Yes, I think she was relieved when I told her,” Anna said. “And I’m looking forward to it, a bit. I know I won’t be on holiday, but I expect I’ll have a bit of free time to see a few of the sights.”

Now that Anna was going to be lady’s maid officially, she was O’Brien’s chief rival. Pointedly not looking at O’Brien, Thomas said to Anna, “I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. I saw a bit of Paris during the war, when I had leave. It was nice.” 

She looked at him expectantly, with a serious expression. 

He fished for something else to say—most of the parts he’d visited were not describable in mixed company. “Lots of architecture.” He had seen some of that on his way from one den of iniquity to another. “Cathedrals and things.” Across the table, O’Brien snorted. 

“I’ll be sure to send back postcards,” Anna said. 

“I wouldn’t mind one of the Eiffel Tower,” Mrs. Hughes said. 

“Hideous modern nonsense,” Mr. Carson opined. “The Arc de Triomphe or the Opera House would be preferable.” 

Molesley turned up just in time for pudding, after many of them had dispersed, but just a few were still lingering over theirs, Thomas included—and O’Brien, although they still hadn’t said a word to each other. Sitting down in Anna’s old place next to him, Molesley said, “Mr. Barrow, just the man I wanted to see—thank you, Mrs. Patmore,” he added as she put a dish of crumble down in front of him. 

“What can I do for you, Mr. Molesley?” He risked a glance at O’Brien now, to make sure she grasped the point that he was more than willing to help a _proper_ valet. 

“I wondered if you were dressing Mr. Branson here in the morning, or if I’m to have both of them at Crawley House. I’ve finished the alterations, so it doesn’t matter either way.”

Thomas cleared his throat. “Well, you’d have to ask young Alfred about that. He’s the one looking after Mr. Branson. Alterations, you say?”

“Yes, he’s wearing Mr. Matthew’s old morning coat.” Molesley laughed. “Kicked up a bit of a fuss, but Mrs. Crawley and her Dowager Ladyship insisted that as he’s going to be best man, he must look the part.”

“And quite right they are,” Thomas agreed. “It was good of you to do the alterations; I’m sure it would be entirely beyond Alfred’s skill. If you ask me, I think it would be best if you dressed Mr. Branson for the big day. There ought to be somebody involved who knows how he ought to look.”

“I expect that’ll be up to Mr. Branson,” Molesley said, “but I’ll try to suggest it.”

“You needn’t go to any extra trouble,” O’Brien said. “Alfred is more than capable.”

“Maybe he is,” Thomas said. “Since Mr. Molesley has already done the difficult parts for him.”

Mr. Molesley swallowed his last bite of crumble and laughed nervously, looking back and forth between them. “I think I’ll just find Alfred and ask him.”

“Do that,” O’Brien said, but went with him. Realizing he couldn’t go along to continue the argument without making it obvious what he was doing, Thomas stayed put. 

Just after they left, Daisy came in, and perched on the edge of the chair Molesley had just vacated. “I’ve started,” she said to him in a low voice. “The strike. But she’s just carrying on like she doesn’t notice, like it’s all a big joke. I’m starting to feel like a fool, sitting there not working.”

Thomas lit a cigarette and sat back, considering. Earlier, when he’d first advised Daisy, he’d had no interest in the outcome; he just wanted something interesting to happen. But now that his eyes had been opened at how Miss O’Brien had been playing him like a puppet all these years, it seemed important that she win—just like Alfred was winning under O’Brien’s tutelage. “Well, that’s what she’s hoping for,” he finally said. “That if she doesn’t respond to your protest, you’ll give it up. You have to outlast her, that’s all.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Stick to your guns. You’re in the right; don’t let anybody push you around.” He nodded firmly. “You’d better get back—if you’re sitting in here, it looks like you’re loafing, not protesting.”

The next morning, they were all up before dawn to work on the wedding tasks that had to be done at the last minute. The gardeners delivered bushels of flowers, and Thomas was stuck helping Alfred arrange the inside ones, following diagrams that Carson and the head gardener had worked out weeks before. 

For the first part of the morning, Thomas was too tired to get any digs in, but as they neared being finished, he rallied. “What have you done here?” he asked, pointing at a portion of the garland on the banister of the main staircase. 

“What?” Alfred said. “I did it like it said on the paper, didn’t I?”

“You’ve left the ends of the wires sticking up,” Thomas said. “Suppose Lady Mary puts her hand on the banister while she’s coming down? She’ll rip a great bloody hole in her hand, and likely spoil her dress. Is that what you want to see happen?”

“No, Mr. Barrow,” Alfred said. “But she likely won’t put her hand on the banister, not with the flowers there.”

“She can if she likes! Fix it,” he demanded. “And check all of the wires; I haven’t the time to do it for you.” He stomped off to look at the arrangements in the dining room.

A few hours after they’d got up, the family were finally ready to start their day. Thomas went up to dress Lord Grantham. As he was putting the studs in his shirt, his lordship said, “How are things downstairs? Is everything ready?”

“As ready as we’ll ever be, my lord.”

It was apparently too flippant a remark for the father of the bride; he shot Thomas a look of slight alarm. 

“Not to worry, my lord,” he revised. “We’ll do Lady Mary proud.”

And, Thomas thought, they did. The wedding went off without a hitch. The only flaw he noted was that the manes of the horses pulling the bridal carriage weren’t braided—and that was the outside staff’s problem, not theirs. Lady Mary made it up the aisle without tripping on her train, no one dropped the ring, and within what seemed like moments, it was all over, and the new couple were back in the carriage, taking a leisurely circuit around the village that served the dual purposes of allowing all the villagers to have a good gawp and of giving the servants time to make it back to the house ahead of the family and guests. 

Thomas was far too busy to notice if Alfred made any mistakes during the party or not—even with the extra footmen who had been borrowed from neighboring houses, he was run off his feet keeping everyone supplied with food and drink. They managed not to run out of either, but it was a near thing as far as champagne went. When it was finally time to start showing guests out to their motors, Thomas was astonished to see that it was still light out—it felt like it ought to be about midnight. 

Their work wasn’t done with the guests leaving, of course, but they could all take a moment to catch their breaths. Down in the servants’ hall, the picked-over remains of the wedding food made their way to the table—anything that was still mostly intact was whisked out of reach by Mrs. Patmore, to be saved for the family’s cold collation that evening, but there was a fair bit left—canapés, aspics that had been cut into, finger sandwiches whose crusts were just beginning to curl up. Tired as he was, Thomas exerted himself to fill a plate while the selection was still at its best. 

“It was a lovely ceremony, I thought,” Mrs. Hughes said. 

“Yes, lovely,” said one of the maids. “She looked like something in a film, coming down the aisle.”

There was a smattering of talk about how lovely it had all been. Thomas didn’t find it nearly as annoying as all the wedding talk beforehand. He hoped they wouldn’t still be talking over every detail days hence—though he suspected they probably would—but today, when it had just happened, it would have seemed strange to talk about anything else. 

Once the platters were cleared, Mrs. Patmore brought in what was left of the cake—less the portion being saved for Lady Mary and Mr. Matthew on their first anniversary, of course. There was enough for everyone to have a small slice. Carson poured white wine, making a single bottle stretch to serve all of them. Once everyone had a glass, Carson raised his. “To Lady Mary and Mr. Matthew—their health and happiness.”

There was a general murmur of response—“Hear, hear,” and “To Lady Mary.” 

No sooner had the murmur died down, Mrs. Hughes began handing out everyone’s work assignments for the cleanup. “Alfred and Mr. Barrow, start by collecting the glasses….”

And the respite was over.


	2. Tailcoats and Evening Shirts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred has no business valeting anyone.

For nearly a month after the wedding, Thomas was satisfied. Now that the big event was over, he was no longer forced into a footman’s duties. Lady Sybil and Branson didn’t stay long, since he had his job to get back to, so there was no more nonsense about Alfred playing at being a valet. And if O’Brien wasn’t speaking to him, that was just fine with him. He preferred it that way. He never felt so much as a pang of jealousy when he went into the servants’ hall or out into the courtyard and found her and Alfred with their heads bent together, conspiring. No, he kept to his own work and minded his own business. 

It was a little disappointing that Daisy’s protest came to nothing. She’d given it up, right after he told her to stick to her guns, too. Well, if some people didn’t want to be helped, there was no helping them, he decided. 

Anna sent postcards—one of the Eiffel Tower for Mrs. Hughes, the Opera House for Mr. Carson, and the Champs-Élysées for the rest of them. She didn’t say much, just that she was having a nice time. Without her there, Bates faded as a topic of conversation—Thomas was glad of that. Made things so much more peaceful. 

Mrs. Levinson stayed. She didn’t have a job to go back to, of course, and Thomas supposed that, having made the crossing to civilization, she was in no particular hurry to return to America. Being lady’s maid to an American must have been light work, because Miss Reed was a fixture in the servants’ hall, always chatting to someone or other, and taking no notice of who was above or below her in the hierarchy of the household. One day she cornered him while he was trying to drink a cup of tea and have a look at the paper, and asked him, point blank, if there was something about Alfred he didn’t like.

He knew better than to be disarmed by her frankness. He considered the question, and said, “Not against him personally, no. He seems a nice enough lad. But he isn’t really qualified to be footman in a place like this, that’s all. He ought to have started in a smaller house, and worked his way up.” 

“I see,” she said, smiling like she knew something he didn’t. 

“Being Miss O’Brien’s nephew might have gotten him the job, but it can’t make anyone accept him. She’s not well liked.” 

“I’m surprised to hear you say that, when she always says such flattering things about you.”

Thomas let his skepticism show, and looked pointedly at his paper. 

She didn’t bother him again after that. Which was perfectly fine with him. He was staying away from gossip and from scheming ladies’ maids entirely. 

Later, he thought that he ought not to have stayed away from them quite so entirely as he had, or he wouldn’t have been blindsided on the day the honeymoon party returned. Going to the servants’ hall for a quick smoke before the dressing gong, he found Alfred putting studs in an evening shirt, right there on the servants’ hall table. 

It couldn’t possibly be what it looked like. “Who is that for, and why are you doing it down here?”

Alfred recited, without looking up, “It’s for Mr. Matthew, it was creased, and I brought it down here to iron it.”

“You’re never looking after him.”

Now Alfred did look up, his expression puzzled. Maybe he’d learned enough in a month to realize that as head valet, Thomas ought to have been informed—no, consulted—about who was to valet Mr. Matthew. 

“What about Mr. Molesley?” he continued. When he wasn’t asked to do it, he’d assumed that Mr. Molesley would be doing it after all—maybe coming up from Crawley House to do it, or something. 

Anna, who was drinking a cup of tea at the other end of the table, said, “He’s staying on at Crawley House.”

That was old news; it didn’t mean Alfred had any business valeting his lordship’s heir. 

It didn’t take Thomas long to work out that while he’d been minding his own business, O’Brien hadn’t. “Mr. Carson thought it best,” she said. No doubt, he thought that after her ladyship suggested it—and her ladyship suggested it after O’Brien planted it in her ear like a vial of poison. 

And that, apparently, was all it took to make someone a valet in this house: Miss O’Brien’s say-so. If she’d ever really been his friend, she could have done the same for him _ten bloody years_ ago. He bet that if he’d been valet, Lord Grantham would have kept him out the war, the same way the Dowager kept Molesley out. Not only had his career stalled, but he’d suffered through two years of a hell she couldn’t even imagine, all because she couldn’t be bothered. 

He’d have wrung her neck for tuppence, but as nobody was offering him tuppence—and he’d never get away with cold blooded murder, unlike some people—he had to satisfy himself with informing Alfred of his error in doing that kind of work in the servants’ hall. Likely he’d brought it down so O’Brien could show him how to do it. 

Alfred didn’t rise to the bait, just said “Thank you” like he didn’t realize what he was up to. Miss O’Brien repeated the thanks, but with an extra lashing of sarcasm. If Alfred had spoken to him like that, Thomas could have dressed him down for it, but as it was, he was paralyzed. 

Finally, the dressing gong went. It meant he wouldn’t get that smoke after all, but at least he had an excuse to get out of there, without looking like he was running away.

Up in the dressing room, he did a fair bit of slamming of drawers and wardrobe doors, until Lord Grantham came in and said, “Is there something _wrong_ , Barrow?”

“No, my lord,” Thomas said. He’d missed an opportunity, there. If he’d managed to seem _concerned_ instead of angry, and his lordship had asked about it, he’d have been able to explain how very worried he was that Mr. Matthew wouldn’t be looked after the way he should. But he couldn’t convincingly pretend his anger had anything to do with Mr. Matthew—the only way he could explain that was with the truth, that it just wasn’t _fair_ , and his lordship wouldn’t care one bit about that. “I’m sorry, I’m just a bit distracted.”

“Not bad news, I hope,” his lordship said. 

He didn’t really _care_ , Thomas reminded himself. If it was something Lord Bountiful could fix with no trouble to himself—giving him a day or two to tend to his aged mum, or something—he’d probably do it, but he didn’t care. Nobody did. “No, my lord. It’s nothing. I’ll be more careful.”

Thomas decided that he’d better waste no time inserting himself back into the household’s gossip telegraph if he didn’t want any more nasty surprises. He decided to start with Anna. By rights, she ought to have been as offended as he was. She’d worked her way up to lady’s maid properly—starting as housemaid, then head housemaid, before finally being made Lady Mary’s maid officially. And now Alfred was her counterpart, when he’d barely been in the house a month. 

But when he broached the subject, she just said, “I’m sure he’ll do his best.”

“Maybe,” Thomas said. “I mean, yes, of course. He’ll try. But is that going to be good enough?”

“It’s really up to Mr. Matthew to decide whether it is or it isn’t.”

He tried again. “But don’t you think he’s being taken advantage of? Having a hotel waiter foisted off on him as a valet? He might be too kind-hearted to complain about it, but you can’t say it’s right.”

“I’m sure Mr. Matthew will stand up for himself if he feels it’s necessary.”

It was like talking to a brick wall. With an internal sigh, Thomas gave up on that avenue. 

He tried Daisy next, but as soon as he mentioned Alfred’s name, all she wanted to talk about was whether he was or was not paying a little more attention to Miss Reed than was proper. Thomas couldn’t care less about that—not unless he seemed about to do something so foolish it could get him sacked—and tried to steer the conversation back toward the subject he cared about. “I don’t know,” he said. “I suppose he thinks they’re _colleagues_ now that he’s valeting Mr. Matthew.” 

Daisy, instead of responding with appropriate horror at Alfred’s completely unwarranted elevation, looked slightly cheered. “Maybe that’s all it is.”

It was time, then, for the last, desperate resort: Mr. Molesley. Next time he came up to the house, Thomas would sound him out on the subject. Surely he would realize how wrong it all was. And if he put a word in Mrs. Crawley’s ear, and she brought some pressure to bear on Mr. Matthew, it might still turn out all right. 

But as it turned out, he didn’t need to go that far. The next day, he saw Alfred striding purposefully down the downstairs corridor, a tailcoat folded over his arm. 

“What have you got there?” he asked. He wasn’t hoping for much, not yet, but maybe Alfred was going to make a blunder like he had with the shirt the day before, and Thomas could have a word with him about it. 

“Mr. Matthew’s tailcoat,” Alfred said, coming back to him. “What do you suppose that is?” He showed Thomas a spot on the side panel. 

Thomas examined it, thinking quickly. “Hm. Hard to say.”

“I’ve tried it with all the usual things, but I can’t shift it,” he said, with an expression like a confused spaniel.

Listen to him—“all the usual things,” like he’d know what they were. If he did, it was only because O’Brien had told him. 

Luckily, Thomas knew that O’Brien was busy getting her ladyship ready for tea at the Dower House. All of the ladies were going, so Reed and Anna were also occupied. Alfred wouldn’t be able to rely on any of them for help, not if he wanted there to be time for the coat to dry before the gong. “I’ll give you a tip if you like.”

“Would you?” Alfred said, clearly too dim to suspect anything. “Really?”

Thomas nodded. “But keep it to yourself. Don’t want to give away all my secrets.” It wouldn’t do to have Alfred consult anyone else before trying Thomas’s advice—and, with any luck, he’d be too honourable to bear tales afterward. 

He set off toward the supply cupboard, Alfred trailing at his heels like a big, dumb puppy. 

Thomas knew the cupboard well. The bottle of soda crystals—a perfectly typical and harmless thing to suggest, and perhaps even one of the “usual things” Alfred had already tried—were right next to the caustic soda, which could only be used, heavily diluted, on the toughest fabrics. No matter how careful he was, it would eat through the silk of an evening coat before Alfred could do anything to stop it. “There,” he said, pointing to the bottle. It was important to point, not to get it down himself—if Alfred was enough of a snake to grass on him, he’d be able to say Alfred was mistaken. “Put a little of that on. Not too much. Should clear it right up.”

“Thank you, Mr. Barrow,” Alfred said, taking down the bottle. 

Thomas quickly turned away, so he could say that he hadn’t seen him take the wrong one. “Must be getting back to my own work now.”

He stationed himself in the servants’ hall, replacing a cracked button on his lordship’s Norfolk jacket. He expected that, having tried his advice, Alfred would next come rushing into the servants’ hall in a panic. Possibly brandishing the coat’s smoking hole for all to see. Perhaps he’d even cry. 

But he didn’t, and Thomas wondered at first if Alfred might have found some way to avert the disaster. But, it turned out, what he’d really done was even worse: he’d apparently decided, like the complete idiot he was, to try putting it on Mr. Matthew as if nothing was wrong. If Alfred had been any cleverer, Thomas would have suspected him of thinking that he might be able to convince Mr. Matthew that he’d done it himself with a cigar or something. As it was, he supposed that Alfred simply hadn’t been thinking at all. 

Mr. Matthew did notice, of course. He had to go down in his dinner jacket, and when asked about it, explained exactly what had happened. With Mr. Carson in the room and everything. Thomas almost wished he’d been made to wait at table, so he could have seen it all.

What he did see was absolutely glorious. Mr. Carson told Alfred off about it, right there in the servants’ hall in front of everyone. Then O’Brien tried to make a joke out of it, and Carson told _her_ off for being vulgar. Thomas only wished Carson had heard some of kind of thing she used to say when it was just the two of them, if he thought _that_ was vulgar. 

Alfred _did_ try to tattle on him, but fortunately, Thomas had prepared for this bit of treachery. “No such thing,” Thomas said. “I gave you some soda crystals, that’s all. If you used them wrongly, it’s not my fault.” To Miss O’Brien, he added pointedly, “This is what comes of making him run before he can walk.”

O’Brien didn’t even try to answer back to that—what could she say? Alfred wasn’t qualified to be a valet. If he were, he would have known better than to put caustic soda on an evening jacket, no matter what he thought Thomas was pointing at. Thomas took his seat, pointedly not meeting her furious gaze.

To his further delight, Lord Grantham brought up the subject of Alfred as Thomas undressed him that evening. “Did you know, Thomas, Alfred somehow managed to burn a hole in Mr. Matthew’s evening coat,” he said as Thomas helped him out of his own coat. 

“I had heard, my lord. Mr. Carson had some strong words to say about it.” 

“I thought he might,” his lordship said. “I wonder if Carson may have made a mistake, asking him to look after Mr. Matthew.” 

Now this was more like it—Lord Grantham taking him into his confidence about household matters. “He may have expected that Miss O’Brien would help him, my lord,” Thomas offered. “But a lady’s maid doesn’t know all there is to know about being a valet—and she can’t watch him every minute.” Warming to his theme, Thomas went on, “I do hope Mr. Carson isn’t too hard on him. We can’t all be quick learners, can we?” He decided he had better stop short of implying that his training as an orderly qualified him to diagnose Alfred as a halfwit. “He does try. I gather he put half a dozen things on that coat, when he didn’t know which one would work. But trying harder can’t make up for not having the knowledge in the first place.” He shook his head sadly.

“So you think he’s not ready?” Lord Grantham said. 

Hadn’t he said that? Getting the dressing gown from the wardrobe, Thomas said, “He’s just a lad, my lord. He can see to the odd visitor—” because if he didn’t, Thomas would have to “—but permanent valet to Mr. Matthew? It’s too much.”

“Actually,” his lordship said, “I’m pretty sure Mr. Matthew would rather manage on his own.”

Naturally—because _Mr. Matthew_ would know what to do if he got a spot on his coat. No, then Thomas would end up doing all his cleaning and mending, but he wouldn’t get any appreciation for it because Mr. Matthew was looking after himself, wasn’t he? “They wouldn’t like that downstairs, my lord.” 

“I was afraid you’d say that.” Thomas held up the dressing gown for him to put on, and as Thomas helped him into it, his lordship continued, “So what would you suggest?”

 _Finally_ , he was being consulted, as he should have been from the beginning. Unfortunately, for all his planning of how to bring this moment about, he hadn’t quite worked out what he was going to say. He couldn’t offer to do it himself—he’d already realized it might seem suspicious if he was too eager, and at any rate, if he suggested it, there was no way he could avoid blame when one or the other of them was, inevitably, left waiting. Finally, he settled on the least-worst option. “Ask Mr. Molesley to join us. It’ll be kinder to Alfred in the long run. Kinder than asking him more than he can give.”

“I daresay you’re right.”

Thomas wasted no time getting downstairs to tell Carson about his lordship’s decision, before Miss O’Brien had an opportunity to stick her oar in. No doubt, she had spoken to her ladyship about the matter, but if Lady Grantham had been persuaded to stick up for Alfred, she wouldn’t do so before breakfast at the earliest. If Molesley were already there, it would be that much harder to get rid of him again. 

He might, he reflected, have chosen his moment better. Carson was in the middle of accepting the confession of a maid who had broken a serving dish, and when she’d finished, Carson turned to Thomas and snapped, “What _is_ it, Mr. Barrow?” 

Carson had no call to speak to him like that—he hadn’t broken or burned a hole in anything. “His lordship thinks it best if we ask Mr. Molesley to look after Mr. Matthew. As Alfred’s not up to it.”

Carson looked at him for a moment. Finally he said, “Very well. Is there anything else?”

Thomas would have liked to elaborate on exactly why his lordship had made this decision, and the instrumental role that Thomas’s advice had played in it, but he sensed that Carson was not in the mood. “No, Mr. Carson.” Thomas left, taking care not to seem to be hurrying.

The next morning, Mr. Molesley arrived in time for breakfast. At Anna’s polite inquiry into his reasons for being there, he puffed himself up and said, “It seems I’ll be joining you as Mr. Matthew’s valet after all.” 

Neither O’Brien nor Alfred seemed surprised, so someone must have tipped them off. Alfred said, “After we’ve eaten, I’ll show you where everything is in his dressing room, if you like.”

In Molesley’s place, Thomas would have pointed out that he hardly needed to be taught his job by a footman, but Molesley just said, “Thank you, Alfred.”

O’Brien spoke up. “So Mrs. Crawley can spare you after all? I thought you were essential.”

“Ah,” Molesley said. “Well. We haven’t discussed the details yet, but I expect I’ll go back down to help if she has a dinner or something.” 

Thomas also made a point of telling his lordship about Molesley’s arrival while dressing him for the day. 

“Good,” said Lord Grantham. “That’s one thing I don’t need to worry about.”

One thing he didn’t need to worry about, because Thomas had fixed it. He hoped his lordship remembered that. 

He retired to the servants’ hall while the upstairs lot were having breakfast, taking with him some studs to clean. He’d barely gotten started when Daisy came in and perched on the edge of the chair next to him. “Do you know what I saw last night?” she demanded.

“No,” Thomas said. He likely didn’t care, either. She’d been no help at all in serving Alfred his just desserts, so he didn’t see why he should be bothered about her problems.

“Alfred, and that Miss Reed. _Kissing_.” 

Maybe he was interested, after all. “Blimey.” Unseemly behavior with a visiting lady’s maid, now that was something Carson would not like the sound of at all. Particularly if it had happened in some private corner where it might have led to something more. “Where?”

“In the passage, right outside the kitchen. He was leanin’ up against the wall, and she just walked up and kissed him, like that! Right on his cheek.”

A kiss on the cheek, in a busy place, initiated by the maid—there wasn’t much Thomas could do with that. Maybe if he wanted to get _Reed_ in trouble…but he didn’t, not at the moment at least, and he wasn’t sure that anything better was expected of an American. “What did he do?”

“Just stood there,” Daisy said. She nodded. “He didn’t really kiss her back, did he? Maybe he didn’t even like it. It’s awfully forward, isn’t it?”

If Alfred hadn’t responded, then he definitely couldn’t use it. “Yeah, forward,” he agreed. “Funny, she doesn’t look like a brazen hussy, but I suppose you never can tell with Americans.” If word got around that Miss Reed was no better than she should be, it would reflect badly on Alfred if he kept company with her at all, no matter how innocently. 

“D’you think most men would think that?” Daisy asked. 

“What?” Thomas stared at her. Her startled expression proved that she hadn’t meant what he thought—she wasn’t hinting that there was something _different_ about him. 

“That she’s a hussy, I mean. For doing that.” 

“I can’t imagine any man would think she’s very respectable,” Thomas answered. 

Before Daisy could say anything else, Mrs. Patmore appeared in the doorway. “What are you doing lollygagging in here, Daisy?”

“Seeing if Mr. Barrow wanted a cup of tea,” she answered quickly.

“I do, thanks,” Thomas said. 

“Then you’ll have to come into the kitchen and get it,” Mrs. Patmore pronounced. “Daisy doesn’t have time to be waiting on you hand and foot now that she’s an assistant cook.”

So it happened that Thomas was in the kitchen when Clara, one of the housemaids, came in with the news that Lady Edith had run from the breakfast room in tears. 

“Really?” Daisy asked. “Why?”

“I don’t know, do I?” Clara answered. “I wanted to see if any of you lot had any idea.”

None of them did, but it didn’t stop them—or any of the rest of the staff—from speculating about it. By the time they sat down to dinner at mid-day, Clara had decided that Lord Grantham had betrothed her against her will—a scenario that just happened to form the plot of the cheap novel she was reading. 

“No one forces girls into marriage against their will these days,” Anna said, trying to be the voice of reason. 

“Don’t they, here?” Miss Reed asked. 

“This isn’t the dark ages,” Anna answered. 

“What really did happen sounds like something out of the dark ages, to me.”

After that cryptic utterance, everyone clamored, as Miss Reed had doubtless anticipated, for her to tell what she knew. Finally she explained, “Lord Grantham has forbidden the match between her and the man she’s keen on. The older one. Sir Strallan? Something like that.”

“Sir Anthony,” Daisy, who had come to bring the plates in and stayed for the gossip, corrected.

“Whatever his name is, her father made him break it off,” Reed said. “You wouldn’t catch an American girl standing for that.”

“That’s a shame,” Anna said. “She really liked him, I think.”

“But he’s ancient, isn’t he?” Alfred asked. “He’s got to be twenty years older than she is. And he’s crippled.”

Everyone suddenly became very interested in their cuffs, the tabletop, or some corner of the room that was not near Anna. 

“Some people don’t mind that,” said O’Brien. “Takes all sorts, I suppose.”

“Thank you, Miss O’Brien,” Anna said pointedly. 

The others resumed discussing the suitability of Sir Anthony for Lady Edith. 

“I don’t think it’s such a bad match,” Thomas said. Unlike some of Lady Mary and Lady Sybil’s suitors that he could name, as far as Thomas knew, he really was coming to the house to see Lady Edith. “There aren’t that many young men left in her class—and let’s face it, they weren’t exactly beating down her door before the War, were they?” 

It was just his luck that Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes chose that moment to come in. “Beating whose door down, Mr. Barrow?”

Thomas groped for an answer as he stood up. He considered trying to say that they were discussing a film star, but he couldn’t think of one—and anyway, he doubted anyone would back his story. 

O’Brien said, “Thomas was just telling us all about how he disagrees with his lordship about Sir Anthony as a suitor for Lady Edith.”

“I wouldn’t say that I disagree, exactly,” Thomas said.

“Really? He thinks it’s a bad match, you think it’s a good one…how is that not disagreeing?” O’Brien asked.

Before he could answer, Carson said, “In any case, it is not a suitable subject for gossip.” Drawing out his chair and sitting, he introduced the subject of the dinner being held a few nights’ on, which, apparently, was a suitable subject for gossip.

Thomas had no illusions that, having gotten no satisfaction from Carson, O’Brien would give up on trying to get back at him. Over the next few days, he was careful not to say anything in her hearing that could reflect badly on him if taken out of context. He also worked on cultivating Molesley, making more of an effort than usual to disguise his boredom at the other valet’s conversation. Daisy remained a fruitful source of gossip on the subject of Miss Reed’s pursuit of Alfred, but since she never reported seeing Alfred himself doing anything indiscreet, it wasn’t much use. He kept listening to it anyway, just in case.

On the afternoon of the big dinner, Molesley was all a-flutter about the fact that Mr. Matthew’s spoiled evening coat hadn’t come back from the tailor yet. “If it isn’t on the seven o’clock train, I don’t know what we’ll do,” he said, when they were out in the courtyard after tea.

Thomas didn’t, either. “Does he have another one?” He almost hoped not; if Mr. Matthew turned up at dinner perfectly turned out, everyone might forget that Alfred had ruined his coat in the first place. 

“No,” said Molesley, sitting on a nearby bench and putting his head in his hands. “Just the dinner jacket. He can hardly wear _that_. And there’s no time to go into Ripon, even for an off-the-peg one. If the tailor hadn’t promised, I’d have done yesterday. Do you suppose we could take a livery coat, and change the buttons? No, what am I thinking? Mr. Matthew can’t wear a footman’s coat.”

“His lordship has a spare, but it would never fit,” Thomas said. Then he had an idea. “Let’s go up to the attics and have a look around. There’s loads of old clothes up there; we might find something that would work.” If they did, the cut would be sufficiently old-fashioned that it would still serve as a reminder of Alfred’s blunder. And even if they didn’t, he would get some credit for trying to be helpful. Whatever O’Brien said, he did try to be helpful. Sometimes. When it suited him. 

As it turned out, they didn’t find anything. If it had been a fancy-dress party, Mr. Matthew could have gone as a dandy from the previous century, but it wasn’t. The only modern evening coat they found was Lord Grantham’s old one from before he was married, and the moths had been at it. Thomas tried to make a joke about how it looked as if Alfred had tried to clean it, but Molesley was unamused. 

The gong went—early, so the family would be ready when the guests arrived—and they parted, Molesley for the train station and Thomas for his lordship’s dressing room. 

His lordship wanted a bath, so Thomas got that ready and then returned to the dressing room to get everything laid out. Waistcoat, white tie, evening coat— _his_ gentleman still had one—but when he reached for the evening shirt, his hand met empty air. He stared into the wardrobe incredulously. There should have been a full dozen of them there. He scanned the other shelves, opened all the drawers, thinking they might have got moved somehow…nothing. 

With a sickening sense of dread, he realized what must have gone wrong. Hoping that his lordship would stay in the bath a bit longer, Thomas raced downstairs. 

“Where’s Alfred?” he demanded of Daisy. With Miss Reed about, she’d know.

“Why?” asked Mrs. Patmore.

Thomas ignored her. “ _Where’s Alfred_?”

“I think he’s in the servants’ hall,” Daisy said.

He certainly was. Him, and O’Brien, and Anna, drinking cups of tea as if they hadn’t a care in the world. “Where are they?” he demanded.

Alfred looked up at him, a stupid expression on his stupid face. O’Brien put down her magazine with a smirk, as though she were enjoying the show. 

“Where are what?” asked Anna. 

“His bloody evening shirts, that’s what!” He struggled to control himself; if Carson heard him swearing, he’d be in even more trouble. “Where have you put them?”

Alfred said, “I haven’t touched his evening shirts—why would I?”

As if he didn’t know. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe he was too stupid for something like this. But Thomas knew who wasn’t. He turned to O’Brien, nearly incoherent with rage. “Have you done this?” He could scarcely believe it—maybe they weren’t mates anymore, but did all their years of friendship count for _nothing_? 

“Thomas,” she said, as if she’d had about enough of his stupidity. “Why would I know anything about his lordship’s _shirts_?”

Because she had bloody pinched them! If Alfred hadn’t, she had. “When I find out—” he began.

She interrupted, “Keep your histrionics to yourself, and hurry up about it. Her ladyship’s already in the drawing room. Are you telling me his lordship’s not even dressed?”

Of course he wasn’t—he was having a bath. Undressed, as was the custom. But he was likely finished now. Thomas looked back and forth between the two of them for a moment, hoping to see some sign of guilt that he could pounce on. But there was none, so he turned on his heel and ran back upstairs.

His lordship was, in fact, out of the bath, and was standing in the dressing room wearing a dressing gown and an aggrieved expression. “Thomas. Where have you been?”

Thomas took a final look at the wardrobe, hoping that they might have reappeared as suddenly as they went. “Looking for your evening shirts, my lord. They’ve disappeared.”

“What?” Lord Grantham looked for himself. “You can’t have lost them all,” he said, with a furious gesture.

“I didn’t _lose_ any of them,” he retorted, barely remembering to add a “my lord.” He clenched his jaw, trying not to shout, or cry, neither of which would help his situation at all. “They’ve been taken by someone.” His lordship’s incredulous look led Thomas to elaborate, “S-stolen.” And there was the hint of a stammer he’d had as a boy, returning as if he needed one more thing to make him look foolish. “Pinched.” He didn’t know why he was going on like his lordship didn’t know what “taken” meant. 

Lord Grantham put his hands on his hips. “Why would they do that?”

Thomas wanted to tell him—the question made him realize how very much he wanted to be able to tell _someone_ how his former best mate, the only real ally he had in this house, had been trying to undermine him ever since her bloody nephew showed up. If there had been even the slightest trace of sympathy in his lordship’s tone, he might have done. Blinking against the traitorous prickling in his eyes, he said, “To get at _me_ , my lord.”

Lord Grantham stepped toward him, and Thomas instinctively drew back. Not, he told himself later, because he actually thought his lordship was going to hit him, but no one liked having angry people advance on them. It was a reflex. “Are you not popular downstairs?” he asked.

The truth would not help him here, Thomas knew. They’d almost got Bates fired the first time for being unpopular downstairs. “I wouldn’t say that, my lord,” he temporized. “But you know how people can be.” Toward anyone who was different, toward anyone who looked to be getting a little bit of a leg up on them.

His lordship’s expression suggested that he did not, in fact, know. 

“They like a little joke,” he finished weakly. 

It wasn’t a very good answer. “Well, I’m sorry, but this is quite unacceptable.” For a second, Thomas thought he was about to be sacked, but his lordship continued, “If you uncover the culprit, refer them to me.” 

Thomas nodded. He knew he wasn’t off the hook yet. 

“But for now, what are we going to do?”

Thomas opened his mouth to answer, then closed it again. He had absolutely no idea. He ran through the same ideas he and Molesley had tried for the problem of Mr. Matthew’s coat. There was certainly no time to go into Ripon and buy one—the guests would have arrived before he got there, much less got back with it. He couldn’t borrow one from Mr. Matthew; it would never fit. One of Mr. Carson’s might come close, but his lordship couldn’t wear a butler’s shirt, any more than Mr. Matthew could wear a footman’s coat. If there was anything in the attics which would work, he would have seen it. Finally, Thomas said, “Mr. Matthew’s going to be wearing black tie, my lord. His evening coat’s not come back yet.”

“My dinner shirts haven’t disappeared as well?”

Thomas checked. “They’re still here.” 

His lordship opened his mouth to speak, and raised his hand to gesture, but instead shook his head and sighed. “I don’t see what choice we have. All right.”

After his lordship went down, Thomas began a furious search for the missing shirts. He started with Alfred’s room and then, after carefully checking to make sure no one was watching, ran back downstairs and up the maids’ staircase to check O’Brien’s. Then he remembered one of O’Brien’s earlier tricks and checked his own room. 

Nothing. Where else could she have put them? He checked her ladyship’s dressing room—despite knowing that his presence there would be very hard to explain—then Mr. Matthew’s. It was as if the bloody things had disappeared into thin air. Maybe she had them stuffed down her corset.

It was a measure of how distraught Thomas was that he actually ran down to the servants’ hall to see if she looked puffy. She didn’t. She did, however, look smug. 

“His lordship says that once I find out who pinched his shirts, I should refer them to him,” he informed her. “Can you think of any reason why I shouldn’t?”

“If you have any _proof_ of who did it, I suppose you could,” she said. “Of course, if you went to him with a suspicion, you’d have to tell him why you suspected that person.”

She had a point. He could hardly say that he knew O’Brien did things like this because he was usually the one who helped her. Or that she was against him now because he’d given Alfred some bad advice. “Would I,” he blustered, but he suspected she knew she had him. 

He went looking for Daisy, thinking she might have heard or seen something that he could use as proof. Instead, he found the kitchen in an uproar. Molesley, Anna, and even Miss Reed were helping the kitchen staff prepare a motley assortment of cold scraps and leftovers. “What’s going on here?” he asked Daisy as she passed. 

“Where’ve you been hiding?” she asked. “The stove’s not working; we’re putting out anything we can find that they can eat cold.” 

Clearly, no one would have a second of attention to spare for _his_ problem. Thomas was annoyed about that for a second, until he realized that with _this_ going on, his lordship going down in a dinner jacket would pale into insignificance. As long as he found the shirts before tomorrow night—and he would, if he had to tie O’Brien down and apply lit cigarettes to the soles of her feet—it would all blur together into one huge disaster that couldn’t be pinned on anyone in particular. 

It was also a disaster that Miss O’Brien stood alone in doing nothing to remedy, sitting in the servants’ hall with a magazine while everyone else mucked in and did what they could. “I had no idea,” he said. “I was dealing with another crisis, but mine can wait. What can I do to help?”

Anna looked up from the…something…she was chopping. “ _You’re_ going to help.”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

Mrs. Patmore said, “They’ve already plowed through the first lot we put out like a horde of locusts. We’d better start thinking about puddings; if we put something sweet out, they might realize it’s time to stop eating.”

Fortunately, they hadn’t had trifle downstairs for a while, so there was a fair collection of leftover bits of cake in the larder. She gathered up several of these and gestured for Thomas to take more. “Anything that’s still moist, we’ll cut into squares and garnish with…something…so they look like petit fours. The stale bits will go for trifle; I’ll put it in a crystal bowl and sprinkle some candied violets on top, and maybe they’ll mistake it for something fancy.”

Thomas had served enough petit fours to know what they looked like, and the things he was making didn’t come very close, but he supposed it was better than nothing. More importantly, Mr. Carson came in several times and couldn’t miss seeing that he was there, pitching in and doing his bit to uphold the honour of the house in the emergency. With any luck, he wouldn’t realize that Thomas hadn’t been helping for quite as long as the others.

When all of the desserts were done, Mrs. Patmore urged everyone who didn’t actually work in the kitchen to clear out, so she and her girls could start cleaning up in peace. Most of the others went across to the servants’ hall to have a sit down, but Thomas remarked to no one in particular that he had his own emergency to deal with.

He shouldn’t have been surprised when no one so much as asked what it was, let alone offered to help. Here he was, all day, helping Molesley with his problem, helping Daisy and Mrs. Patmore with theirs, but as soon as he had one of his own, Thomas stood alone. Absolutely bloody typical.

So, all on his own, he resumed the search. Now he decided to try all of the places a pile of shirts would be inconspicuous: the linen cupboard, the laundry, even the livery cupboard. Nothing. The guest bedrooms? There were dozens; it would take forever. But anyone who saw them there might think they’d been left by a guest. He checked. 

Completely out of ideas, he retreated to the dressing room to collect his thoughts—and to see if anything else had been taken. He couldn’t begin to imagine how his lordship would react if, after an evening like this one, he went up to get ready for bed and some vital item was missing.

But not only did he find everything in its place—the pyjamas, the dressing gown, the underwear—the shirts were back as well. On their usual shelf, and—he counted—all there. Cautiously, he unfolded one, checking that it was intact and undamaged. 

It made no bloody sense at all. If his lordship hadn’t seen for himself that they weren’t there, Thomas might have thought he’d imagined the whole thing.

He trudged down to the servants’ hall, physically and mentally exhausted. “Who put them back?” he asked.

Anna looked up from her reading. “What?”

“The shirts, who put them back?”

“Oh, they’re back, are they?” O’Brien said, her tone inviting everyone else to have a laugh at his expense. “You mean you overlooked them in the first place.”

“Don’t tell me what I mean, Miss O’Brien,” he said, dead level. “I’m warning you,” he said dangerously.

Miss O’Brien was completely unimpressed. “Listen to yourself. You sound like Tom Mix in a Wild West picture show. Stop warning me, and go and lay out his lordship’s pyjamas.” She said it as though it was the most ridiculous thing in the world—as though she wasn’t about to go up and lay out her ladyship’s nightdress. The maids sitting across the table giggled. 

He left, with as much dignity as he could muster. If he hadn’t just checked, her emphasis on the word _pyjamas_ might have made him wonder if she’d taken those next. 

In fact, he found himself wondering if she could have nipped into the dressing room just after he left, and somehow got down to the servants’ hall before him. It didn’t seem possible but…

He ran back up and checked anyway. All pyjamas present and accounted for. He briefly considered just staying in the dressing room until his lordship came up, to make certain there was no further funny business. But he suspected that the servants’ supper would be scanty, and if he wasn’t on time to fight for his share, he’d go to bed hungry. 

With a last, wary look at the wardrobe, he went back down, vowing to keep a close eye on O’Brien, and follow her if she showed any signs of sneaking off. 

She didn’t, though. Maybe she wasn’t any more eager to starve than he was. Supper was a cold veal and egg pie—half of which the kitchen snapped up before it even got to the hall—and whatever bits and pieces the guests hadn’t devoured from the “indoor picnic.” Thomas supposed they got up from the table _slightly_ less hungry than when they sat down. 

#

Robert went wearily up to bed, reflecting that the evening had been a success, more or less. His mother-in-law was going home, and while she wasn’t going save Downton, he hadn’t expected that she would. The guests had enjoyed themselves, despite the unusual style of hospitality. Since they’d have to entertain in a more modest style after leaving Downton, perhaps it was a blessing in disguise that they’d seen that their usual set could still have a good time at a less formal sort of party. After this fiasco, they needn’t be embarrassed to invite any of the same guests to dine at a smaller house that at least had a functioning kitchen.

When he went into the dressing room, Thomas—he could never get into the habit of thinking of him as “Barrow”—greeted him by saying, “The shirts have been returned, my lord.”

It took Robert a moment to remember what he was talking about. It seemed like he’d gotten dressed days ago instead of hours. “Good.” He wasn’t very interested in talking about the shirts, but clearly the subject was important to Thomas. He unbuttoned his jacket and turned for Thomas to slip it off his shoulders. “The dinner jacket turned out to be the right thing for the sort of evening we had, after all.”

“Yes, my lord. Whoever took them sneaked them back in while the rest of us were rushing about trying to salvage the dinner.”

“Then I suppose we’ll say no more about it, as long as whoever it was realizes there should be no similar attempts at humor in future.” To forestall any further comments about the shirts, Robert introduced a new topic as he took off his tie. “The party came off about as well as could be expected, under the circumstances.”

“I’m glad you think so, my lord. A number of us went into the kitchen and helped—Anna, and Mr. Molesley, and even Miss Reed.”

“Really,” said Robert, undoing his shirt studs. He had to admit he was rather surprised, and touched, to hear that so many of the staff had gone outside their usual duties to keep the evening from being a complete disaster. 

“Well, valets and ladies’ maids don’t really have anything special to do once the guests have arrived, do we?”

Belatedly, Robert realized that Thomas was likely making such a point of telling him this so that he’d notice that Thomas had also helped. It was tiresome, but Robert supposed he’d better do so—according to Carson, Thomas had been fairly stroppy about insisting on his privileges as valet when he was first given the position. It was probably a relief to everyone if he’d gotten past it. “I suppose you helped as well?”

“I did some of the cakes, my lord,” Thomas said. 

That was, somehow, even more surprising. “Well,” Robert said. “You’re a man of hidden depths, Barrow.”

That, apparently, was all he wanted. Robert went to bed, contented with the knowledge that, whatever else was changing, he still had the knack of being kind to servants.

But when he got there, he found that he wasn’t finished with the subject of the shirts. Cora welcomed him to bed by saying, “O’Brien says that Thomas found your missing evening shirts.”

“Yes, he did,” Robert said. 

“She also mentioned that he was making all sorts of wild accusations about someone having stolen them.”

“He said that to me as well.”

“I wonder if he’s entirely well. It’s much more likely that he just misplaced them, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” Robert said. “It’s not like him to lose a stack of shirts.” Steal them, maybe, but that was an unworthy thought—the war seemed to have cured Thomas of his penchant for petty larceny. 

“Well, that’s what I mean. If he isn’t well….” She trailed off. “O’Brien seems worried about him, and you know how close they are.”

“Yes, I know.” This was hardly the first time Cora had decided that what her maid thought about his valet was an appropriate subject for pillow talk. “He hasn’t complained. And one would think he would, if he was unwell.”

“I suppose you’re right. But do keep an eye on him.”

“I will,” said Robert, turning off the light.


	3. Happiness is Burning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> O'Brien stages a covert campaign, Downton prepares for a wedding, and Thomas develops a rudimentary sense of empathy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, thanks to Shino716 for beta help, and any dialogue you recognize comes from the show.

The morning after the disastrous dinner party, the usual after-breakfast lull was broken by the announcement of Lady Edith’s engagement to Sir Anthony. “There,” Thomas said, when he heard the news in the servants’ hall. “What did I say?”

“I suppose you’re going to try to convince us that his lordship asked your advice about his daughter’s marriage,” O’Brien said scornfully. 

“What makes you suppose he didn’t?” Thomas asked, although he knew perfectly well that he had not. 

O’Brien just snorted. 

Thomas was obscurely annoyed to observe that conversations about Lady Edith’s wedding were less frequent and enthusiastic than those about Lady Mary’s had been—and, in fact, speculation about the upcoming wedding often derailed into reminiscence about the earlier one. There was no reason why it should bother him, since the whole subject of weddings bored and irritated him, but every now and then, he wanted to point out to the maids how strange it was that they couldn’t talk about Lady Edith for ten seconds at a time without comparing her unfavorably to Lady Mary. 

His annoyance in the complete lack of interest displayed for the subject of who she might choose as a lady’s maid was easier to understand. If one of the current housemaids had wanted the job, he could have gained an ally against O’Brien by appearing to support her ambitions. As it was, he supposed she’d be bringing in some outsider, and that was no use to Thomas at all.

The issue was driven entirely from his mind, however, when one evening in the dressing room, Lord Grantham asked him if he was feeling entirely well. 

“Yes, my lord,” he said cautiously. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Lady Grantham thought you might be a bit…overtired. You did seem a bit frantic the other night. About the problem with my shirts.”

So that was O’Brien’s game. He’d just about decided that the only reason for her to have sneaked them back in was if she had seen reason after he’d told her that his lordship wanted to deal with the culprit. But maybe this had been the plan all along—to make them disappear for just a little while, then drop hints to her ladyship that he must have lost them because he was “overtired.” And everyone knew what that was a euphemism for. “I think everyone was a bit frantic that evening, my lord,” he said. “It’s very kind of her ladyship to worry, but I’m quite all right.”

“Good,” Lord Grantham said, and immediately asked an unnecessary question about his morning coat for the wedding, as if to dismiss the embarrassing subject of Thomas’s “tiredness” entirely. 

O’Brien’s plan seemed to have flopped entirely, but she evidently wasn’t quite ready to give up on it. Nothing else went missing, but over the next few days, Thomas frequently went into the dressing room to find things ever so slightly disarranged. He’d reach into a drawer that had always held white ties, and come out holding a pair of socks. Or the box of cufflinks would be on the opposite side of the shelf from where it usually sat. His lordship didn’t say anything, but Thomas thought he must have noticed that Thomas was spending an unusual amount of time looking for things. 

She didn’t confine the campaign to the dressing room, either. She took to giving him solicitous looks across the table at meals, and one afternoon at tea observed, “Thomas, you’re looking peaky. Are you well?” in a carrying voice.

He tried to ignore her, but Anna, sitting next to him, turned to study him and said, “You do look a bit pale.”

“I always look pale,” he said. “It’s my natural colouring.” 

Of course, O’Brien immediately turned that on him, repeating, “Your natural colouring? My, my,” as if it were a particularly poncy thing to say. “I suppose you would know.”

He didn’t even know what that was supposed to mean, except that it was clearly insulting. 

Mrs. Hughes said, “I’m quite certain that if Thomas were ill, he’d not like it to be a subject of general conversation.”

“I’m not ill,” he repeated. “I look how I always look.”

“Of course you do,” she said soothingly. “There’s no need to take my head off.”

“He always gets a bit ill-tempered when he’s not feeling well,” O’Brien commented.

“Does he?” said Reed—who, to Thomas’s relief, would be leaving along with Mrs. Levinson the next day. “How can you tell?”

Thomas decided to refrain from conversation entirely until the end of the meal. If they were all going to gang up on him, it was the safest thing.

He went several more days without rising to O’Brien’s bait, but things came to a head one evening when he took his lordship’s dressing gown off the hanger and noticed a suspicious bulge in one pocket. 

Even worse, Lord Grantham noticed it too. “What’s that?”

Thomas reached into the pocket and took out…a snuffbox. The same one, if Thomas wasn’t mistaken, that they’d tried to use to frame Bates all those years ago. 

“How did that get in there?” his lordship asked, taking it out of his hand. “Is this another _joke_?” 

“No, my lord.” It was a message, and he couldn’t miss who had sent it. But he also couldn’t say how he was so sure. “I mean, I couldn’t say.”

“I thought I made myself clear last time. I do not find this sort of thing at all amusing.”

“Nor do I, my lord,” Thomas said, holding on to his temper with both hands. What could he say? He didn’t know what would look worse—if he tried to play it off as a lighthearted bit of fun gone too far, or admitted that someone was making a serious effort to undermine him. Either way, it would be his fault for not putting a stop to it, or for bringing it on himself. Even playing into O’Brien’s hands and implying he was so “tired” he didn’t know where he left his head from one moment to the next might not be the worst option. “I spoke to who I thought was responsible for…the other thing, and they denied it. I’ll speak to them again.” Not that it would do any good. 

His lordship echoed his thoughts. “And what will that accomplish? Thomas, I am not blind. This is not the first item to have turned up in an unusual place in my dressing room in recent days.”

“No, my lord,” he agreed dully. 

“If someone is doing these things as a joke, then that person clearly is not concerned about inconveniencing me or getting you into trouble. I think I had better know who it is that you suspect.”

Thomas hesitated for a long moment. He might try asking for one more chance to take care of things himself—but his lordship was right; telling O’Brien once more to knock it off wouldn’t change anything. Then he considered lying—trying to pin everything on one of the hall boys, maybe. He’d already said that whoever he named would deny it. But accusing someone completely at random would give weight to the suggestion that he was cracking up. 

Only he also knew that if O’Brien were accused, she’d somehow manage to turn the whole thing back on him before his lordship had finished speaking. Finally he said, “Alfred, my lord.” Accusing him would send a clear warning signal to O’Brien, with less risk. And Alfred had a motive. “He knows I thought he wasn’t quite up to valeting Mr. Matthew, and he blames me for him losing the job.” Thomas was sure that Alfred didn’t have the intelligence or the deviousness to come up with the counter-accusation under pressure. He just might, if the coat was mentioned, think to explain Thomas’s role, but Thomas had an explanation prepared for that one. “I’ve explained how it wasn’t my decision, and that I think he’s better off learning one job fully before he takes on a second, but he’s holding a bit of a grudge, I think.”

“Alfred,” his lordship repeated. He rubbed his temples for a moment. “I’ll speak to him tomorrow.” He turned for Thomas to put his dressing gown on him.

Thomas put it on him. “Yes, my lord. I don’t like to get the lad in trouble, but I have asked him myself to stop.” He hesitated, wondering if there was any way to make the next suggestion without seeming impertinent. Finally he settled on, “If you don’t mind my saying, my lord, your speaking to him might have more effect if he isn’t warned in advance by his auntie to expect it.” 

Lord Grantham turned to look over his shoulder at him, and Thomas had a very long moment to think about how incredibly stupid it was for him to even hint at what topics his lordship should and should not discuss with his lady wife. But finally, his lordship said, “I expect you’re right.” 

Thomas breathed a sigh of relief. The next morning, he was very careful to take no notice whatsoever when Carson told Alfred that his lordship wanted to see him in the library, or when Alfred wondered aloud what it might be about. He did show a little interest when Alfred returned speaking cryptically about unfairness, and when he and O’Brien drew two chairs into the corner by the piano for a whispered conversation, but only because everyone else was casting curious looks in their direction, and if he didn’t, it might look like he already knew what it was all about.

When they’d finished, O’Brien came over to stand across the table from him. “Fancy a smoke, Thomas?” she said coldly. 

If he didn’t, Thomas thought, she’d probably tear into him right there, and it would be hard to explain. He went. 

As soon as they got outside, she wheeled on him. “What do you think you’re doing, setting his lordship on Alfred?”

Thomas had to admit, he’d expected something more subtle. He leaned back against the wall and lit a cigarette slowly, savoring the rare sight of O’Brien knocked off her pedestal of righteousness. “He noticed someone had been moving his things,” he finally answered. “And he asked me who I thought was doing it.”

“Alfred isn’t doing it,” she said. 

“You could tell him that,” Thomas said. “But he might wonder how you know.” 

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. 

“The way I see it,” he continued, “we both know you’ve got her ladyship wrapped round your little finger. But Alfred’s position isn’t quite so secure. So. You hit back at me, I’ll hit back at him. Simple as that.” 

“Alfred’s never done anything to you,” she protested. 

“And I’ve never done anything to you.” 

Apparently, O’Brien didn’t have a clever answer to that. She turned on her heel and went back inside. Leaving him to smoke in peace. Just the way he liked it. 

#

“Robert,” Cora said, coming into the drawing room before dinner. “O’Brien tells me that you suspect _Alfred_ of moving things in your dressing room.”

Naturally, O’Brien had an opinion—Thomas had certainly predicted that accurately. “Yes,” he said. “I do.” Alfred had denied it, of course, but Robert imagined that the O’Brien clan learned to speak with forked tongues in their cradles. He was still irked—and a little confused—at how O’Brien had managed to get her nephew taken on as a footman when Robert had had no intention of hiring anyone new. “I’ve told him that as long as there is no more trouble of the sort, we’ll let the matter rest.”

“But what if he’s innocent? He can’t stop it from happening again if he isn’t doing it.”

She had a point; in a way, if the incidents stopped, it would almost be proof of Alfred’s guilt. “Someone’s doing it,” he answered. 

“Maybe not,” Cora said. She leaned in closer to him. “O’Brien says that Thomas has been misplacing things and blaming other people downstairs, too. She wonders if it might be his nerves—some leftover problem from the war.”

O’Brien, Robert thought, was grasping at any explanation that didn’t involve her nephew. “He didn’t misplace them. My dressing room has been organized in the same way since I ascended to the earldom; the things were not where they should have been.” If Thomas’s own things were going missing, perhaps Alfred was doing that, too. 

Cora considered that. “But if he’s moving things himself, and then forgetting where he’d put them….”

“Then he’s considerably more than tired. Or even nervous. I’d like to think I’d notice if my own valet were completely off his rocker.” He did speak to the man at least three times a day. “I’m sorry, but it simply isn’t plausible that Thomas is doing this himself. You can reassure O’Brien that if the situation continues, I’ll have Carson investigate fully before taking any action.” Although the only difference it was likely to make was between sending Alfred off with a good reference or without one; footmen would be an unnecessary extravagance in a smaller house. “Speaking of that, we ought to be thinking about what staff we’ll need in future.”

“Well, Carson of course. And Mrs. Hughes, and Mrs. Patmore. And I simply can’t let O’Brien go, not after all this time.”

Yes, all of the longest-serving staff—and the highest paid. “Those who stay will need to be willing to take on a broader range of duties,” he pointed out. Somehow, he couldn’t see O’Brien agreeing to dress both ladies and act as parlour maid besides. “I thought Matthew and I could share one valet, who could also act as second man to Carson.” He wasn’t sure which one. Thomas had been with the house longer, but Molesley was older, and might have more difficulty finding another place. 

#

This time, Thomas thought, O’Brien had had the sense to take his warning seriously—both the tampering with his lordship’s things and the hints that he was unwell stopped. Of course, it might have been that her involvement in the vigorous debate between Lady Grantham and the Dowager over Lady Edith’s wedding dress was serving O’Brien’s need to have her fingers in every possible pie, and she simply had no time for pestering him—but no, surely she’d just turned to that as a substitute after realizing she was beaten. 

One advantage of the wedding being a bit smaller was that Thomas wasn’t asked to do nearly as much extra work—hardly any, in fact. He almost felt a little left out, in the final week before the wedding, when everyone else was bustling about and he was just doing the usual things.

One day, he was in the servants’ hall sorting collars in a desultory manner when Molesley came in, a more than usually lugubrious expression on his face. “Well, Lady Edith’s just chosen a new maid.”

“Has she,” Thomas said. It was hardly worth caring about; even if she started today, she’d be out of the house in a week. 

“Yes,” Molesley said, with a sigh. “And it’s a shame, because I’d just promised a friend of mine—Mr. Blake, valet to Lord Blankenship—that I’d put in a good word for his daughter.” 

“Too bad he didn’t ask last week.”

“It is indeed. Do you happen to know of anyone else looking for a lady’s maid?”

“Can’t say that I do,” Thomas said. If he’d cared, he might have written to some of his own acquaintances and asked, but why he’d bother doing that for some friend of Molesley’s, he couldn’t imagine. 

Molesley went on at some length about the girl’s qualifications. Learned to style hair in Paris, apparently, and spoke French. Thomas wasn’t sure why that mattered, since she wasn’t applying to be a governess. He also wasn’t sure why Molesley was telling him—he was hardly in the market for a lady’s maid. Finally Thomas had to say he’d let him know if he heard of anything, just to shut him up. 

He didn’t think of it again until a few days later, when O’Brien—Alfred tagging at her heels—paused in the downstairs corridor to ask him if he had his shirt ready for that night.

It was a strange question—it wasn’t a particularly big evening; just Lady Sybil and Branson, and Sir Anthony. The wedding was the day after tomorrow, so this would be Sir Anthony’s last visit as a guest rather than a son-in-law, but still—it was just the family, a neighbor, and the chauffeur. 

More importantly, she’d been scared off bothering him for over two weeks now. What had changed? Pretending unconcern, he informed her and Alfred that he’d hidden several shirts, so he wouldn’t be caught out that way again. In fact, he’d done it weeks ago, and he’d hidden reserve caches of several other essential items, too. 

After exchanging a few more barbs, they went their separate ways, Thomas deep in thought. Could something have happened to make Alfred’s position more secure? Or was she just trying to get under his skin? 

Either way, he’d not give her the satisfaction of appearing worried…but at the same time, he’d be a fool to ignore the warning. The real problem was that O’Brien’s being on such intimate terms with her ladyship, while Lord Grantham barely tolerated him, would always give her the upper hand. If only he could think of some way to shake her ladyship’s confidence in O’Brien….

Or, he realized, the other way around. Thomas remembered how furious O’Brien had been, back before the war, when she’d thought that her ladyship was looking for another maid. You’d have thought she was a cuckolded husband, the way she carried on. Yes, if he could make O’Brien think that Lady Grantham was planning to sack her…well, at worst, O’Brien wouldn’t be quite so sure of her ability to make things come out her way. At best, she might be startled into some act of overt disloyalty—and perhaps her ladyship would even notice it, this time. 

But how could he do it? Since he wasn’t a footman anymore, his chances of overhearing something were slim. And she might not believe anything that came from him, anyway. She’d have to hear it from someone else.

And, he realized when he saw Molesley coming out of Mr. Matthew’s dressing room with an armload of clothes, what more trustworthy source than her ladyship herself? 

After engaging Molesley in a little friendly conversation, Thomas asked if his friend’s daughter was still looking for a place. She was. After talking for a while about how hard it was for a lady’s maid to find a job, he said, “She’ll end up a housemaid if she’s not careful.”

“Well, we can’t have that, Mr. Molesley,” he said. “What if I were to tell you something? You must promise not to breathe a word of it downstairs. Miss O’Brien doesn’t want it known.” She certainly didn’t—or wouldn’t if she had any idea what he was about to say.

They ducked into the servants’ passage. “Of course,” Molesley said. “You can rely on my discretion. What is it?”

“Well,” he said, glancing up and down the stairs to make sure they were alone, “she’s planning on leaving.”

“Really? Why?”

Thomas hadn’t thought up a reason; he moved one shoulder in a slight shrug. “Time for a change, I suppose. Anyway, if a qualified applicant were to write, before she’s even advertised the position….” The daughter would mention Molesley’s name in the letter, of course, and her ladyship would assume that rumors of O’Brien’s defection were all over the servants’ hall. And if O’Brien glimpsed the letter—Thomas knew she had a habit of reading her ladyship’s post—she’d assume Lady Grantham had done something to solicit it. That they wouldn’t eventually clear up the confusion was too much to hope for, but surely it wouldn’t happen before there were plenty of bad feelings on both sides. “It would save her ladyship no end of trouble, wouldn’t it?” he finished. 

“It would,” Molesley said. “Thank you, Mr. Barrow.”

“Any time. Just remember to keep it to yourself. We don’t want everyone’s friend’s daughter writing about the job, do we?” Actually, it would suit his purposes even better if they did—but the more people heard, the greater the chance someone would say something to O’Brien about it. 

“Of course not.” 

Thomas basked in the glow of a good plan well-executed until about five minutes past the dressing gong, when his lordship paused in the act of unbuttoning his day shirt to say, “Barrow, had you heard anything about O’Brien leaving us?”

“What?” The evening trousers slipped from his suddenly nerveless fingers. Stooping to pick them up, he said, “That is, no, my lord. I hadn’t heard.” The question was, how had his lordship heard? 

“That’s odd. I’d have expected you to be the first to know.”

“She hasn’t said anything about it to me, my lord.” 

“Apparently, she said something to Molesley. He said something about it to Lady Grantham.”

That great, gormless oik. Hadn’t Thomas said to keep it to himself? 

No, he realized with a sinking feeling. He’d said not to mention it _downstairs_. Molesley had apparently concluded that it was perfectly fine to mention it _upstairs_. “Perhaps he’s mistaken, my lord,” Thomas suggested. “She does grumble from time to time…he isn’t used to her ways, so he might have thought she was really dissatisfied enough to leave.” That was a perfectly plausible explanation, and it didn’t precisely leave O’Brien smelling like a rose. 

“Perhaps that’s all it is,” his lordship said. “By the way, I’ll need my linen suit for tomorrow. We’re going on a…” he hesitated. “Picnic.” 

“Yes, my lord.” Good thing he had enough warning to press it; that suit wrinkled if you looked at it funny. They discussed tie selection until his lordship was ready to go down, and Thomas collected the linen suit to get started on it.

The “...picnic” turned out to be a surprisingly elaborate affair. Naturally, Thomas hadn’t expected his lordship to picnic with a waxed-paper packet of sandwiches and a flask of lemonade, but the entire family—including the Dowager, Mrs. Crawley, and Sir Anthony—piling into a caravan of motorcars to eat cold ham and champagne on the lawn of a tenanted house two hours’ drive away seemed like an odd choice for the day before a wedding. 

He wasn’t the only one who thought so. Conversation in the servants’ hall at the mid-day meal centered on the subject, but no one had any better idea than he did. Clara thought that perhaps Lady Edith had suggested it. “Girls get all sorts of funny ideas right before their wedding, don’t they?” Thomas had never heard of impending matrimony leading to a predisposition toward picnics—but then, he was hardly an expert on the subject. 

Mrs. Patmore thought that perhaps the family didn’t think she had enough to be doing, getting things ready for the wedding, “First changing the menu at the last minute, now a picnic! They must think I have a magic wand down here.” 

O’Brien said they “oughtn’t to question what his lordship and her ladyship choose to do with their days,” which clearly meant that her ladyship hadn’t told her, either, and she was not happy about it. 

In case they’d had any doubts about whether Mrs. Patmore had a magic wand or not, she gave them the leftover picnic ham for their tea that afternoon. They sat down a bit late, too—apparently, Mr. Carson thought it best to make all of them wait until Anna got back from whatever mysterious errand had taken her to London. Thomas was quite sure that if he were given an unscheduled day off right before the house was hosting a major event—something that would never happen in a million years anyway—no one would be waiting his tea for him. Maybe he ought to change his surname to “Bates” and see what kind of special treatment it got him.

It might have been just as well, though, because all of a sudden, Carson, of all people, asked O’Brien what she had “confided in Mr. Molesley, but kept from the rest of us?”

Thomas wasn’t completely sunk yet; clearly, O’Brien had no idea what he meant. But then Molesley blabbed everything—or nearly everything. He hadn’t yet said that he heard it from Thomas, but he likely would have, if Thomas hadn’t reminded Mr. Carson it was time for the dressing gong before he had a chance. 

That bought Thomas some time to think about how he was going to dig his way out of this one. He decided to start by establishing his utter blamelessness in his lordship’s eyes. “It seems Miss O’Brien won’t be leaving us after all, my lord.”

“Oh,” his lordship said, clearly not interested.

Thomas knew better than to go rabbitting on when his lordship had other things on his mind, but the idea that O’Brien might be, at this very minute, accusing him to her ladyship pressed him on. “Yes, it seems Mr. Molesley misunderstood something after all. She was a bit angry at the idea anyone thought she might be leaving.”

“What a pity,” his lordship said.

“My lord?”

“Nothing.” He shook his head. “Her ladyship will be glad to hear it. She has a number of pressing concerns on her mind at present; she doesn’t need another.”

Concerns like what? Thomas wondered. What dress to wear to dinner? 

“As have I,” his lordship continued. Possibly meaning that Thomas shouldn’t have been bothering him talking about O’Brien—but he had to get his story in first; he hadn’t had a choice. “I shouldn’t say this, and I’d like you to forget you’ve heard it, but I cannot entirely reconcile myself to the idea of having a son-in-law who was three years below me at Eton. He’s a perfectly fine chap, but I think it odd. And I don’t know what I’ll say if he asks for my blessing on the union.”

Thomas was slightly taken aback. He knew from happier times that her ladyship was in the habit of confiding in O’Brien, but his lordship was not—not with him, at least. And frankly, the idea that his lordship had problems that had nothing to do with Thomas, Bates, his wardrobe, or the orderly running of the house was something of a surprise. He supposed if he’d thought about it, he’d have realized he must, but he never had. Thought about it, that is. “Yes, my lord. I can see how that would be awkward.” 

“Yes, I expect you can,” his lordship said. “It’s not precisely the sort of concern I can explain to Lady Edith—or Lady Grantham, for that matter—so I’m afraid they just think I’m being an old fuddy-duddy about it all.”

For a second, Thomas had no idea what he meant. Then, for a second, he thought he did. Eton did feature heavily in a particular sort of illicit reading material that Thomas had encountered from time to time, and it always did seem to involve upperclassmen and boys a few years younger than they—

But this was his lordship speaking. He most certainly did not mean _that_. What he did mean, Thomas had no idea. But something else. “Yes, my lord.” 

“At any rate, girls these days do what they like. My blessing is largely irrelevant.”

Yes, he had definitely meant something else. But Thomas still had nothing to say, since neither agreeing that Lord Grantham’s blessing was irrelevant or disagreeing was a wise option. Instead he said, “Your coat, my lord?”

“Oh, yes. Thank you.” He slipped it on. 

After his lordship left, Thomas would have liked to have some time alone with his thoughts to puzzle over the questions of what exactly his lordship would think he’d understand about why he didn’t think the match was suitable—and what sorts of heretofore unimagined problems her ladyship might have. But Molesley was leaving Mr. Matthew’s dressing room at the same time that Thomas left his lordship’s, and caught up with him. 

“I’m sure you didn’t mean any harm,” he said peevishly, “but Miss O’Brien’s out for my scalp now.”

“I expect she is,” Thomas said, stalling for time. “I imagine the other place she was hoping for fell through, so now she’s pretending it never happened.” That was plausible. It was what he would do. “But don’t tell her that. It’ll only make her angrier.” 

Molesley nodded. “I don’t want that. What do you suggest I do?”

Emigrate? Thomas didn’t think Molesley would appreciate that suggestion. “Grovel,” Thomas said. “Tell her how sorry you are for the misunderstanding, that sort of thing. You don’t want her as an enemy.” 

Fortunately, Molesley seemed satisfied with that. Thomas took care to avoid both him and O’Brien as much as possible, which he succeeded in doing until supper. Molesley took Alfred’s usual spot—his old spot—next to O’Brien. Sucking up, or a change of allegiance. Thomas wasn’t sure, until Alfred tried to get both Daisy and Anna to make plans with him after dinner. Why he chose the married woman and the widow, Thomas had no idea. When both turned him down, Molesley offered himself as a substitute. 

“Let’s see how we feel,” Alfred said.

So his one ally was trying to jump ship, only Alfred wouldn’t have him. Bloody fantastic. Things only got worse after supper. As they went upstairs to undress his lordship and Mr. Matthew, Molesley said, “I’m afraid I’ve landed you in the soup, Mr. Barrow.”

Of course he had—was there _more_? “How’s that?”

“Well, I apologized to Miss O’Brien, like you said.”

“And…?”

“And she asked where I’d heard it. I said I thought you must have been mistaken, but she didn’t believe me. Said…oh, what was it. That she might be making some honest mistakes herself in future.”

Bloody hell. 

“I don’t know why she thought it can’t have been a mistake,” Molesley continued, “but she said she was sure it wasn’t.”

There she was wrong—it had definitely been a mistake. He should never have trusted any part of his plan to Molesley. 

“Perhaps if you go and speak to her…grovel, like you said.”

Thomas smiled tightly. “Yes.” He’d have to speak to her, certainly. But he couldn’t show the slightest sign of weakness. Weakness was like catnip to O’Brien. There would be no groveling. 

Going into the dressing room, he tried to push away thoughts of what O’Brien would do to him—but when he did, the entirely unwelcome mental image of his lordship engaged in some form of illegal activity with Sir Anthony intruded on his mind. It might have been less distressing if he’d been able to imagine them at the ages when it (absolutely positively had not) happened, rather than their current states of advanced decrepitude, but…no. It was still his lordship, and as far as Thomas was concerned, he had engaged in conventional marital relations three times—four if you counted the miscarriage—and that was it. 

And that, somehow, was even worse. If his lordship came into the dressing room while Thomas was still thinking about what he and her ladyship did in the next room, he would die. In desperation, he turned to the question of what concerns her ladyship might have on her mind. Maybe she was ill. Or pregnant again—

No, best not to go in that direction. But ill, maybe. Or—well, she was about to have all of her daughters married off. His own mum had felt a bit low for a while after the last of her little flock was out of the house. It was a bit strange to think of Lady Grantham having anything whatsoever in common with his mum, but…well, mums were mums, weren’t they? No matter how much money they had. 

That thought, somehow, led him to think of how the Dowager was not just an old lady who occasionally turned up at the house to make sarcastic remarks to the family, but was his lordship’s _actual mum_. Crikey, as Mr. Matthew would say. Thomas thought for a moment about how he’d like it if his mum turned up at the house every now and then to criticize what he was doing. 

She probably _would_ , if she were alive, and if Mr. Carson would let her in the back door. 

“Thomas?” his lordship said from somewhere behind him.

Thomas realized he had been staring into the wardrobe for God knew how long, and had completely missed Lord Grantham coming into the room. “I’m sorry, my lord. I was miles away.” 

Fortunately, his lordship didn’t say anything else surprising while Thomas undressed him; he didn’t think he could have stood the shock. He already felt like his brain had been turned inside-out and given a good brushing. 

He retreated to his room immediately after finishing the evening’s work. He was in no state to face O’Brien—or, indeed, anyone else. The last thing he needed was to start thinking about, say, _Carson’_ mum. Thomas was much more comfortable thinking that he had been hatched from an egg, or perhaps ordered ready-made from some factory that manufactured butlers. 

He hoped that a good night’s sleep would chase all of these strange thoughts from his mind, but he was still feeling sort of queer and raw as he got into the wagonette to ride down to the church the next afternoon. Lady Edith looked somehow lovelier than herself, walking down the aisle on his lordship’s arm. Thomas might have put it all down to the enormous effort that had been put into her dress and hair, but he’d noticed much the same thing on his own sister’s wedding day. She was a plain-faced hag—Thomas had gotten all the looks in the family—and her frock had been off the rack at a department store, but on that day, she had been almost pretty. 

And then Sir Anthony joined her at the altar and said—well, Thomas didn’t hear what he said, not sitting in the back like he was, but he could tell it wasn’t the sort of thing a bridegroom was supposed to say. 

He did hear part of what Lady Edith said. She was arguing with him. “We’re going to be—so happy.” 

She looked, and sounded, like he’d felt the night the Duke of bloody Crowborough had told him he’d never had the slightest intention of taking Thomas to live with him. Like she’d been punched in the gut. Like the very idea of happiness was going up in flames before her eyes. 

Lady Edith’s mother and grandmother flocked around her as Sir Anthony fled the church. This time, there was no triumphant victory lap around the village. Lady Edith was bustled into the nearest of the family’s cars and they started back to the house while most of the guests were still standing in the pews scratching their heads. 

It was a very quiet group that got back into the wagonette to return to the house. “Blimey,” Thomas said into the resounding silence. 

“Not now, Thomas,” Anna snapped. 

“Sorry,” he muttered. He might even have meant it. 

The rest of the day was spent scrubbing every trace of the wedding from the house—taking the flowers down to the hospital and the churchyard, packing away the crystal and the extra china, putting the carpets and furniture back where they had been. Thomas found himself wondering if that was what Lady Edith would want done. If having it all cleared away as if it had never happened would actually _help_. It shouldn’t have mattered—his lordship had told Carson to clear it all away, and Carson had told them, what was it to him whether it helped or not? 

Later in the afternoon, Carson sent Thomas into the drawing room to gather up the wedding presents. He was surprised to find Lady Sybil there, sitting at the card table with a roll of brown paper and an address book, packing the things up to be sent back. 

“I didn’t realize you’d be in here, my lady,” he said. “Mr. Carson sent me for the gifts, but….”

“You can take the ones I’ve done—just wait a moment while I finish this one.” She tied the current parcel with string. 

“Ah, we can do that, my lady, if you’d rather.”

“I have to do _something_ ,” she said. “Edith doesn’t want to see me or Mary—I suppose I can’t blame her. My happily married sisters would be the last people I’d want comforting me after I was jilted at the altar.” She shook her head. “I always thought Sir Anthony was so nice.”

“I did, too,” Thomas admitted, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Carson wasn’t checking up on him. 

“I suppose we were both wrong. What a wretched thing to do. And poor Edith—she was so happy just last night, talking about the honeymoon. I can’t imagine how she must feel right now.”

“Like the world’s just ended, I expect.” 

It was going a bit far, even considering this was Lady Sybil, but she just looked up at him with a sympathetic expression. “If you aren’t busy, you could wrap the larger ones, and I’ll write the addresses. I’m not supposed to pick up anything heavy.”

He could hardly be faulted for doing what Lady Sybil asked, Thomas decided. He gathered up some of the larger packages and sat across from her. 

“A bit like old times, isn’t it?” she said after they had worked in silence for a few minutes.

“A bit,” he agreed. Cleaner, certainly. But they were still sitting over something tragic, so maybe not that different. Strange that he could think of anything that happened to a Crawley sister as “tragic,” but there it was. 

Suddenly, it occurred to him that he had never once thought, back when Larry Grey had been courting Lady Sybil and violating the law with him, how awful it would be for Sybil if she’d married the swine. There likely wasn’t much of anything he could have done—he could hardly tell Lord Grantham that one of his youngest daughter’s suitors was unsuitable because he’d been shagging Thomas six ways to Sunday and, incidentally, was not very good at it. But the thought of doing something about it had never even crossed his mind. Even though he liked Lady Sybil. 

“I know I can’t be glad that the war happened, not when so many people were killed,” she said. “But if it hadn’t, I might never have found the courage to choose Tom. I might have ended up with someone like, oh, Larry Grey.”

Thomas was startled into blurting out, “I was just thinking about him.”

“Nothing good, I hope,” said Lady Sybil, with an impish smile.

“No,” he said. He thought he’d better make something up…then he thought again. “I was thinking how young ladies often don’t know what their suitors are really like.” That was almost the truth. 

“That’s true,” she said. “When most of my friends were getting married, I thought half of them wouldn’t have gone through with it, if they’d gone on the wedding trip first.” She covered her mouth with her hand. “I don’t mean that like it sounded. Just that if they saw how he behaved when she felt seasick on the crossing or when the train broke down and left them sitting up in the compartment all night, they’d think twice about their choice.”

“I understand,” Thomas assured her—or started to. The second word was only halfway out of his mouth when Mr. Carson appeared in the doorway, and he jumped to his feet and shut up. 

“Mr. Barrow, have you been—Lady Sybil, I didn’t see you there.”

“Mr. Barrow was just helping me with the larger parcels,” she said. 

“I see,” Carson said. “If you would, send him back downstairs when you’ve finished with him.”

“I will. We only have a few left to do.”

Mr. Carson bowed slightly and departed. 

She looked at him anxiously. “If you’re supposed to be doing something else….”

“I’m not, my lady” Thomas said. “Mr. Carson is a bit anxious that we not seem to be treating you over-familiarly just because you’ve--”

“Run off with the chauffeur?”

“I was going to say chosen a less formal way of living, my lady.” 

She smiled thinly. “I’d better let you get back, before he’s cross. Let’s just finish these last two.”

They did so, saying little more than, “Hold this string while I tie it” or “This bit of paper should just reach.” Thomas remained standing. Lady Sybil was still addressing packages when he took the first armload down, but by the time he went back for a second lot, she was gone. 

Carson, however, was not gone, and cornered Thomas in the luggage-sorting room, where they were keeping the presents until they could be sent back. “Mr. Barrow, do I need to speak to you about not bothering Lady Sybil?”

“No, Mr. Carson.” He almost repeated the story about helping Lady Sybil with the packages—which was, after all, true—but instead he said, “We used to talk sometimes, when we were working together during the war. She was friendly with everyone.”

Carson huffed and said that he’d be ringing the dressing gong in a few minutes. Thomas wasn’t sure whether that meant what he said had worked, or not.

#

“Papa,” Sybil said, sitting on the sofa next to Robert in the drawing room before dinner. “Did you know that Carson’s been telling the servants not to talk to me?”

“What?” He couldn’t believe Carson would do something so presumptuous. “Are you certain?”

“Well, not that exactly,” Sybil admitted. “Thomas—Mr. Barrow, that is—says he’s warned them all off being ‘excessively familiar’ with me.” 

__sounded more like something Carson would do. “And they shouldn’t be. Why was Thomas telling you that?”

“I was talking to him, and Carson seemed cross about it. So I asked, and Thomas told me what he’d said.”

“Why were you talking to my valet?” 

“We worked together during the war,” she reminded him. “He wasn’t your valet then.”

He’d nearly forgotten about that. “Well, you don’t work together any longer, and Carson is quite right that he should not be, as you say, ‘overly familiar’ with you.” Given what had happened with Branson, the spectacle of Sybil chatting with other male staff could not help but invite speculation. Even if it was Thomas. 

“You talk to the men you were in your war with, when you see them,” Sybil pointed out. “I know you do; I’ve seen you do it.”

“It’s hardly the same.”

“Because I’m a woman, or because we were patching people up instead of shooting at them?”

“Both!” Sybil, he knew, would be unimpressed with either argument. “I’m not sure that Thomas Barrow is an appropriate friend for you in any case.” God only knew what they talked about. 

“As a married woman, I don’t need to ask you or Mama to approve my friends,” she answered. 

“And I suppose your husband does approve of this friendship.” Maybe Thomas had encouraged them.

“Not precisely; Tom and Thomas have never seen eye-to-eye. But he knows better than to try to control me like some Victorian paterfamilias.” 

Robert had to give Branson credit for having some sense, at least. He certainly had never been able to control Sybil, and he _was_ a Victorian paterfamilias. 

“And it isn’t as though I’m planning on asking him—or any of your servants—to accompany me on a walking tour of the Lake District. I simply want to make sure that I can speak to them without getting anyone into trouble,” Sybil continued reasonably. 

“Who else on the staff do you consider your personal friends?”

She hesitated. “Well—Anna. Yes, I think Anna and Thomas are the only ones still here.”

 _Anna_ was all right, at least. 

“You can tell Carson that if I need help stopping anyone being ‘overly familiar,’ I shall let him know,” Sybil added. 

Knowing he was beaten, Robert said, “No one is saying you shouldn’t speak to them. But bear in mind the difference in your stations, and that they have duties to complete.”

“Thank you, Papa,” she said, leaning in to kiss his cheek. 

#

Thomas wouldn’t have admitted it out loud, but even he was a little impressed with the supper spread out on the servants’ hall table. Of course, they would have been getting wedding leftovers in any case, but ordinarily, they’d have been picked-over and remade into humbler dishes. Now, some of it hadn’t even been taken off the good china. 

Daisy and Mrs. Patmore sat down with them, too. Who had twisted Carson’s arm until he agreed to that, Thomas didn’t know; he wished he’d seen it. One of the hall boys was coming around with wine, too—why they were getting that, Thomas didn’t know; wine would keep. But he certainly wasn’t going to argue about it. 

Someone else, though, was willing to argue. “Is this all we’re getting?” Alfred asked as they took their seats. “These…pickety bits?”

“Hardly,” Thomas said. “These are canapés, Alfred.” What kind of hotel had it _been_ , where he’d worked before? “For your first course, some truffled egg on toast, perhaps. Some oysters a la Russe.”

O’Brien glared at him across the table, clearly unimpressed with his showing off, but Mrs. Patmore picked up where he’d left off, identifying the main dishes and salads. 

The others started talking about Lady Edith. “Jilted at the altar,” O’Brien said. “I don’t think I could stand the shame.”

Privately, Thomas had to agree. One advantage of your love not daring speak its name, he supposed, was that at least you couldn’t be rejected in front of everyone you knew. But he couldn’t let an opportunity to score off O’Brien pass by unacknowledged. “Then it’s lucky no one’s ever asked you, isn’t it?” 

She ignored him. Anna said, “Poor thing,” but she didn’t mean O’Brien. “How will she find the strength to hold up her head?”

After a few more remarks like that, they finally started eating—Alfred opting for bread and cheese instead of either the lobster or the duckling. As they ate, the subject of Lady Edith was dropped, and a more festive atmosphere developed. Thomas was glad of it—thinking about what had happened at the church that afternoon made him feel, somehow, not very hungry. Now that the others had shut up about it, he could put it out of his mind.

The next afternoon, O’Brien came into the servants’ hall. “Everything all right, Miss O’Brien?” he asked, being careful not to seem the least bit nervous. 

She started to ignore him, then changed her mind. “Oh, yes. Everything’s all right with me. But it’ll be all wrong with you before too long.”

It didn’t occur to Thomas until later on that he could have accused her of sounding like something out of a Wild West picture show. The best he managed in the moment was a casual, “And how is that, Miss O’Brien?” At least, he hoped it sounded casual.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Not yet. But it will be. You can be sure of that.”

Thomas kept a pleasant, neutral expression frozen on his face until she’d left the room. That? That was not good. Not good at all.


	4. Quite Fun, Actually

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas goes to London. He has a nice time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In addition to the usual thanks to Shino716 and disclaimer that some dialogue is transcribed from the show, I want to add that this episode includes some brief, non-explicit sexual content.

Thomas knew that O’Brien was trying to lull him into a false sense of security. It had been almost two weeks since O’Brien had threatened that “everything would be all wrong” with him, and she’d done nothing worse than glare at him across the table, which was normal these days. Likely, she was waiting until he was least expecting it to drop a metaphorical high explosive shell on his head. 

Either that, or she was planning to drive him crazy by never doing anything. Or she just hadn’t thought of something evil enough yet. One of those. Unfortunately, knowing the possibilities didn’t help much. Thomas concentrated on keeping his guard up while not looking like he was the least bit alarmed. And rotating his stock of hidden evening shirts and other necessities, so they didn’t get dusty while he was waiting for the hammer to fall. 

He must not have been doing as good a job as he thought of appearing unconcerned, because one afternoon towards the end of tea, Mrs. Hughes, who was sitting next to him, said, “You seem deep in thought, Mr. Barrow.”

Reflexively, he almost denied it. O’Brien was sitting right there, across the table. But he’d been noticing lately how Mrs. Hughes often asked people about their problems, and how often people told her, like they didn’t even consider the possibility that she might be looking for a weakness to use against them. 

He couldn’t tell her what was really bothering him—even if O’Brien _wasn’t_ right there, he wouldn’t risk that—but he wondered what would happen if he told her _something_. To buy himself time, he took out a cigarette and lit it, thinking about what he could say that would seem like something he might be worried about, but wouldn’t matter if O’Brien heard about it. Mr. Carson was handing round the post, and that reminded him of something he’d heard in a letter a day or two ago. “My cousin George just lost his wife. We used to be pretty close, when we were kids, but he’s living in India now, so he’s all alone there.” Aunt Catherine had written him with the news, and he hadn’t thought much about it, until now. Poor George. “With their little girl. She must be about three now.” That probably didn’t make it any easier.

“Who’s caring for the child?” Mrs. Hughes wondered.

“Well, she’s got a nanny,” Thomas said. That was one of the advantages of India, the natives worked cheap. 

“Still, that’s a shame.”

Anything else that either of them might have said was broken off by Anna asking Mr. Carson if there was anything for her. There wasn’t. Thomas had two, himself. He kept up a spirited correspondence with just about anyone who would write back, so he could avoid that particular shame. 

A few days later, at the mid-day meal, Carson announced that Anna would officially be a lady’s maid at last. Oddly, she didn’t seem too cheered up by the news. Other things on her mind, she said. Thomas didn’t know what—O’Brien wasn’t gunning for her, too; he’d asked. 

Mr. Carson said that he was advertising for another footman, too—finally.

“He’ll be second footman, won’t he?” O’Brien asked.

“As to that, I will make no pronouncements at this stage,” Carson said. 

“Try to find a man with something about him,” Thomas suggested. “I don’t like to feel that the house isn’t being properly represented.” 

“Is that aimed at me?” Alfred asked. 

Of course it was. Who else could it possibly be aimed at? Before he could answer, O’Brien turned a glare on him—and then on dear Alfie. That was a bit odd. Maybe they were meant to be in one of their “pretend Thomas doesn’t exist” periods. Just like Alfred to forget something like that. “If the cap fits, wear it,” he answered.

Mrs. Hughes abruptly introduced a new subject. Thomas decided to quit while he was ahead. 

After lunch, Thomas found himself in the servants’ hall with Anna and Molesley, all of them doing some mending. “Congratulations,” he said to Anna after a while. 

“What?” she said, looking up from her work.

“On being lady’s maid,” he explained. No one but O’Brien had bothered to acknowledge his promotion, a fact he still resented whenever he thought of it. 

“Oh,” she said stiffly. “Thank you.”

“What, you’re not happy about it?” He wasn’t sure if he’d be happy about being Lady Mary’s personal maid, either, if he were qualified for the position. But Anna seemed to like her, for some inexplicable reason. 

“No,” she said. “I mean, yes, that’s fine. I’m pleased.”

“What’s wrong, then?” Molesley asked. 

She sighed, glanced over at him, then told Molesley, “I haven’t had a letter from Mr. Bates in weeks. I don’t know why not,” she continued. “I’ve written him, but he hasn’t written back. And they’re turning away his visitors.”

Another one of those problems that had nothing to do with Thomas or anything he cared about. Funny how many people seemed to be having those lately. “Well,” he offered, “I’m sure they’d have let you know if he’d died or anything like that.” 

Molesley dropped a thimble and dove under the table after it. 

“Thank you, Thomas,” Anna said, but she didn’t sound particularly grateful. 

“Well, they would,” he muttered. How was that not comforting? When people stopped writing him, he never knew if they’d died, been thrown in prison, or just forgotten he existed. “Pardon me for trying to be nice.”

“If that’s an example of you trying to be nice, I can see why you don’t do it more often,” Anna answered tartly. 

So did he, if all it was going to get him was insults. 

Molesley peered out from under the table and, apparently deciding it was safe to come out, emerged. “Perhaps he’s busy,” he suggested to Anna.

That was clearly even less helpful than what Thomas had said—what in God’s name could Bates be busy with in prison? Organizing a garden party?—but _he_ got a sincere thank you. 

Thomas was further reminded of how nothing in this life was fair when, wandering off in what he was sure would be a futile search for more congenial company, he passed Mr. Carson’s pantry and saw him and Alfred having a cozy tete-a-tete. About spoons, apparently, and Alfred’s continued difficulty in distinguishing among them. Once again, Thomas had cause to wonder just what kind of hotel it had been where Alfred worked. Maybe they didn’t have canapés there, but surely they had _silverware_. 

Thomas lingered, hoping that Carson would say something scathing. He did, sometimes, and it could be entertaining if you weren’t the one he was being scathing to. But instead Carson just explained the difference between a soup spoon and a bouillon spoon, sounding almost friendly about it. Thomas didn’t even want to think about how Carson would have reacted if he’d made a mistake like that after being in the house almost three months. Why was everyone so eager to make things easy for that oversized halfwit?

Thinking about it, he didn’t have time to bugger off before Alfred turned around and saw him. Thomas stayed exactly where he was—he could hardly be accused of eavesdropping if he made absolutely no effort to look like he hadn’t been, could he? Alfred brushed past him without a word. 

Definitely one of their pretending-Thomas-doesn’t-exist periods. 

Now that Alfred was gone, he had to come up with some reason why he was standing there. “You’re taking a lot of trouble with young Alfred, Mr. Carson,” he said. “I feel quite jealous.”

Some reason other than _that_. He knew better than to expect Carson to be at all sympathetic, and he was not disappointed. “I don’t know why. He asked for help. You never did.”

Of course he didn’t. He didn’t ask to get kicked in the teeth, either, but funny how that seemed to happen without him asking for it. He quickly tried to think of some other good reason that he was standing there. He could ask if Carson wanted him to help wait at table for the Archbishop that night—if they really were getting a new footman, it should be the last time he was needed. But Carson would probably find some way to insult him for that, too. He smiled stiffly and left. 

Since there was a guest expected that evening, Thomas was on high alert for any signs of tampering with his lordship’s dressing room, but everything was as it should be, and he sent his lordship down to dinner with the Archbishop in correct evening dress. 

He hadn’t expected much excitement out of the evening, but as they were all gathered in the servants’ hall, waiting for the upstairs lot to be finished so they could have their supper, Alfred came in and said, “You’ll never guess who I just opened the door for.”

“The King?” asked Miss O’Brien, a little snidely.

“That Mr. Branson,” Alfred said. 

“And Lady Sybil, of course,” Thomas said. They weren’t expected, but still, he didn’t know why Alfred presumed to find that surprising.

“No, that’s just it,” Alfred said. “He was alone.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Thomas said. “Where is she?”

“I don’t know, do I?”

Thomas’s first thought was that she might be ill. But if she was, it wouldn’t make any sense for Branson to come _here_ —he might have wired them, but he’d have stayed with her. Unless she was dead…. “Is she all right?”

“How would he know that?” O’Brien asked. “He hasn’t got a crystal ball.”

Mrs. Hughes came into the room, patting his shoulder as she passed. “He’s having a tray in his room—apparently he thinks it best that the guest not know he’s here. I can’t imagine there’d be any need for secrecy if something was amiss with Lady Sybil.”

She had a point. “I can’t think why he’d come here without her.” 

“Maybe he and her ladyship had a quarrel,” Molesley suggested.

“This would be the _place_ he’d come, if it was that,” Thomas pointed out. If Lady Sybil had come without Branson, that would be his first guess. But surely Branson had his own family to run to for something like that—and even if he didn’t, he couldn’t possibly be stupid enough to think the Crawleys would take his side. 

“Unless she left first, and he’s come looking for her,” Anna said.

“No, it can’t be that,” Alfred answered, sitting down. “He said…let me think…he said he’d made the arrangements for her to follow. And he came in a hurry—no luggage at all, and he looked like he ran all the way from the station. Soaking wet, he was.”

Naturally, since it was pouring down outside. 

Daisy appeared in the doorway with a tray. “D’you think he’s on the run from the police?”

“Don’t be so daft,” said one of the maids.

For once, Thomas didn’t think Daisy was being daft at all. What might send an Irish revolutionary running to England in the middle of the night? “Well, he hasn’t got the money for a taxicab from the station,” he observed as he went around to his seat, by Mrs. Hughes. He had to be on the run from _something_. 

“Maybe he fancied the walk,” Mrs. Hughes offered. 

Not even she could be that naïve, could she? 

O’Brien voiced his thoughts. “Yes, that’s it. I’m sure he loves a night walk in the rain without a coat.”

“What room is he in?” Daisy asked. Good, maybe she’d get something out of him.

But Mr. Carson came in, just at that moment, and while all of them were standing up, took the tray from Daisy. He might find something out from Branson, but he certainly wouldn’t tell the rest of them about it, if he did. 

“So there’ll be no more gossip on that subject tonight,” Thomas observed, after Carson had gone. 

And there wasn’t, or at least not much. Carson and Mrs. Hughes kept the conversation firmly on other subjects throughout supper. Thomas briefly toyed with the idea of trying to get some information out of his lordship when he was undressing for bed, but abandoned that notion as soon as he got a good look at him. Lord Grantham certainly knew what Branson was doing at Downton, but just as certainly he was not a bit pleased about it. The safest course, Thomas thought, was to keep his mouth shut and pretend he hadn’t noticed anything unusual.

That plan was dashed, though, when his lordship several times opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, shaking his head. Finally, after Thomas had settled his dressing gown on his shoulders, he said, “Lady Sybil telephoned. She’s well and on her way—or was a couple of hours ago, at least. She and Mr. Branson--” He hesitated. “—had to leave Dublin suddenly.”

That was good to know, though Thomas wasn’t sure why his lordship was telling him. “Yes, my lord?” If there was something he was expected to do about it, he was going to need a hint. 

“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “I do not wish to encourage speculation about the matter downstairs. But I suppose you might tell Anna, as well, if she’s concerned.”

Oh. His lordship had told him because he…thought he might like to know? He did, but he was surprised Lord Grantham had any idea, or would be anything other than appalled if he did. “Thank you, my lord,” he said. “I’m sure she’ll be relieved.”

His lordship nodded. “Goodnight, Barrow.”

“Goodnight, my lord.”

After tidying up the dressing room, he went down to the servants’ hall. He found Anna sitting there, with an empty seat next to her, so he slipped into it. With a quick glance at the maids sitting at the other end, to make sure they were occupied and not eavesdropping, he said, “Did Lady Mary tell you about Lady Sybil?”

She glanced over at him sharply. “Mr. Carson doesn’t like us talking about it,” she reminded him.

“Nor does his lordship,” Thomas answered. “But he said I could tell you, she telephoned a couple of hours ago, that she’s all right and on her way here.”

“And thank God for that,” Anna said. “I did hear that she telephoned, but thank you. It was kind of his lordship to think of me when he has so much more on his mind.”

“I thought so too,” Thomas said. “I didn’t realize he knew I know her. Particularly, I mean.” Anna was more obvious; she’d been Lady Sybil’s maid for ages, and all of the Crawley girls liked her. 

Anna smiled stiffly and, a moment or two later, found an excuse to leave the room. When she came back, she sat on the other side of the table. 

He wished she’d stayed. A little while later, the subject came up again, and by now, it seemed like everyone was firmly convinced that Branson really was on the run from the law. Thomas agreed, but didn’t know how they were so sure. Maybe Lady Mary had told Anna more than his lordship had told him—if she had, it was unfair of Anna not to have told him first. They were the ones who knew Lady Sybil best, after all. 

Then Molesley spouted off about how Lady Sybil had married beneath her, and O’Brien said, “What if he has to go to prison, what then?”

It was a tactless thing to say, with Anna sitting right there. Thomas was torn between wishing he’d been the one to say it and thinking he ought to say something clever to put O’Brien in her place.

Sadly, Carson beat him to it. “That’s quite enough of that, thank you, Miss O’Brien. Bedtime, I think?”

Coming from Mr. Carson, that was not a suggestion. Thomas managed a last drag of his cigarette as he stood up, wondering if he’d ever live somewhere he could avoid being sent to bed like a child for something someone else had said.

Once upstairs, Thomas paced his room restlessly, discontented in a way he couldn’t name. He wasn’t really worried about Lady Sybil—it would be foolish to be. It wasn’t a matter of illness or injury, and anything else, Lord Grantham could smooth over for her. She would be all right; there was no reason she wouldn’t be. 

Branson was a complete tosser to have run off without her, of course. Thomas didn’t have the slightest idea what Lady Sybil saw in him. Admittedly, he was an improvement over Larry Grey, but then, anyone would be. 

Shaking his head, he tried to put it out of his mind—no point thinking about it—and went to bed. 

He didn’t sleep well, and was out of sorts until midway through the morning, when what he thought had to be God’s personal gift to him knocked on the servants’ hall door-frame and said “Hello.”

Thomas, along with several of the maids, stood up, momentarily fooled by his film-star looks into thinking he must be some guest who had wandered downstairs by accident. After that first second, though, Thomas took in how he was dressed, and his accent, and realized he was nothing of the sort. To cover his mistake, he came around the table, looking the newcomer up and down. “Who’s this?”

“Jimmy Kent,” said the new man. “At your service.”

Oh, how Thomas wished that were true. “I’m Mr. Barrow. His lordship’s valet.”

“And I’m hoping to be his lordship’s footman,” Jimmy said with a smile. “Which is why I’m looking for Mr. Carson.”

Thomas would have liked to direct him—perhaps even escort him there personally—but at the moment, he was having a little trouble remembering where Mr. Carson might be. Or who he was, for that matter. 

He was still trying to sort it out when Mrs. Hughes came in. The gobsmacked expression on her face would have been funny if Thomas wasn’t afraid he was wearing a similar one. She recovered more quickly, and went off to look for Mr. Carson. 

Thomas was trying to formulate some sort of friendly remark when the maids, as one, broke out of their stupor and came flocking over, tumbling all over themselves to offer cups of tea, glasses of water, and places to sit down. Thomas backed away, glad that he’d managed to maintain at least some semblance of dignity.

When Mrs. Hughes came back, accompanied by Mr. Carson, she chased all of the maids and Alfred off to their duties. Thomas thought he could get away with lurking about—he had for Alfred’s not-really-an-interview, and this one promised to be much more interesting. But before Carson could really get started, Alfred came lolloping in. “Mr. Barrow, his lordship wants you in the library.”

Thomas went, lingering in the hallway just long enough to ascertain that Alfred, of all people, was now being allowed to stay. He’d never gotten to help interview people, and he’d been a proper first footman. With Alfred on the job, Jimmy Kent would likely end up being passed over in favor of some other oaf who didn’t know what a spoon was, he thought gloomily as he trudged upstairs. Which was a shame; he had a way about him that Thomas liked. 

As it turned out, he didn’t have a chance to get so much as another look at Jimmy. Lord Grantham informed him that they’d be going to London on the next good train, and might be staying a few days, so he had to scramble to pack and make the travel arrangements.

Ordinarily, Thomas would have been excited about the trip. They’d be staying at his lordship’s club, something Thomas hadn’t gotten to do yet, but he knew from other valets that the servants’ hall there was always pretty lively and the work was next to nothing. But now he was going to miss out on the selection of the new footman—something he suddenly had strong opinions about—and on whatever was happening with Lady Sybil and Branson.

His lordship’s errand in London doubtless had something to do with the Branson situation—a suspicion that was all but confirmed when Lord Grantham had him get off the train when it stopped in Birmingham and send a telegram to the Home Secretary’s office, asking for the earliest available appointment—but his lordship wasn’t confiding any of the details to him. Once they got to London, Lord Grantham went off…somewhere, on his own, telling Thomas, essentially, to expect him back at the club when he saw him.

Still, there was no use grumbling about what he couldn’t change. After unpacking his lordship’s things and throwing his own case into the small attic room he’d been assigned, he went to investigate the doings in the servants’ hall.

To his surprise, he ran into an old chum even before he’d found out how to go about getting a cup of tea. “Barrow!” said Oliver Mailer, a valet he’d gotten to know rather well just before the war. “You didn’t tell me you were coming to London.”

“I didn’t know myself until just before we left,” Thomas said. 

“Are you going to be in town long?” Mailer asked, shepherding him toward a pair of chairs near the hearth and saying to a passing kitchen maid, “Lucy, can you spare a cup of tea for my friend here? Ta.”

“I don’t know,” Thomas answered, when they were settled. “Maybe a couple of days. Lord Grantham has some kind of business to take care of; he doesn’t know how long it’ll take.”

“Rotten luck—still, we can do something with a couple of days. Unless you’re--” He fell silent as the maid came back with a tea tray. “Thanks, Lucy, you’re an angel.” Once she’d gone, he continued, “You aren’t in the middle of one of your little _affaires de coeur_ , are you?” 

“No,” Thomas said shortly. He’d met Mailer in the middle of the whole sordid Larry Grey business—in retrospect, he’d have been better off accompanying Mailer to the dens of iniquity he frequented. “I’ve given up on all that.”

“Oh,” Mailer said, going a bit stiff. “I see. You’ve got a best girl, then, up there in the wilds of Yorkshire?” His tone was jovial, with just a hint of bitter sarcasm.

“No,” Thomas said, realizing the misunderstanding. “I meant, I’ve given up on falling in love with posh gits.” 

Mailer shook his head. “You had me worried there for a minute. Well, that’s cause for celebration.”

Mailer spent the rest of the afternoon filling him in on all of the London gossip and, when they were sure no one else was close enough to hear, telling him where the best places to find like-minded chaps were, and where he could get postcards of young men in classical poses, cheap. 

“Yes, because that’s exactly the kind of thing I want to be caught having,” Thomas said. 

“You’ve got to while away those lonely country nights somehow,” Mailer answered with a shrug. “Unless you’ve got an understanding with a sheep or something.”

Mailer, naturally, laughed off his indignant denial of any such thing. 

Lord Grantham didn’t come back until just in time to be dressed for dinner, and he retired immediately after he’d dined, telling Thomas to wake him early. “I won’t need anything further tonight.”

Mailer, Thomas thought, would be pleased to hear that. He trotted back down to the servants’ hall, where supper had already started, and Mailer was saving him a place. “Where were you?”

“Getting Lord Grantham into his pyjamas,” Thomas answered. “And that’s my work finished for the night.” 

“ _Really_ ,” Mailer said, grinning. “Eat up quick, then—let me see what I can arrange.”

Mailer dashed off mere moments after the pudding was served. Thomas finished his meal more slowly, reasoning that a case of indigestion would likely be a serious handicap for whatever Mailer had in mind. 

He was lingering over a cup of coffee when Mailer came back. “Right, go get your coat and meet me by the kitchen door.”

“Why?” Thomas said. If the best place Mailer could come up with was _outdoors_ , Thomas thought he might rather do without.

“I’m going to show you the sights. Come on, hurry up.”

“I don’t think Lord Grantham meant I was to go gallivanting all over London,” Thomas pointed out.

“How’s he going to know?” Mailer asked. “Well, unless the place gets raided by the police. But that almost never happens.”

The _almost_ was worrying. “Won’t your gentleman notice if you’re not here when he goes up?”

“It’ll be hours, and Petersen said he’d cover for me if we’re not back by then. He’ll be so sozzled he wouldn’t notice if he was being dressed by the man in the moon. Come on.”

“Oh, fine,” Thomas muttered, pushing his chair back and standing. He’d never have dared sneak out of the Crawleys’ London house when it wasn’t his half-day. But this wasn’t the Crawleys’ house, and Carson wasn’t here to catch him. 

He started for the stairs, only to have Mailer beckon him back. “Just a friendly word of advice, you might want to part your hair on the side, like you used to. The way you have it now makes you look…older.”

“I know it does; that’s the idea,” Thomas answered. 

“Not where we’re going.”

Thomas supposed he had a point. He trotted upstairs to collect his coat, re-comb his hair, and change his tie for something a little less inconspicuous, then met Mailer by the kitchen door. 

After two brisk trots through back alleys, with a short cab ride in the middle, they fetched up at a jazz club, complete with Negro bandleader and girls with short hair and shorter dresses. It was the latter that gave Thomas pause as Mailer cut confidently through the crowd. 

“This doesn’t look like our sort of place,” he said into Mailer’s ear, as Mailer tried to catch the attention of the barman. Given the brevity of the frocks, and the lack of corsetry, he was sure that the girls were the real thing; female impersonators would have stuck out like sore thumbs. 

“Downstairs it is,” Mailer answered. Then the barman came over, and Mailer gave him some complicated order that Thomas couldn’t quite follow. Once the barman had gone, Mailer continued, “But the drinks cost twice as much. Shouldn’t be too hard to find someone to stand us a round once we’re in there, but we don’t want to look desperate.”

The barman returned with two glasses of something poison-green. “Cheers,” Mailer said, handing one glass to Thomas and raising the other. 

“Cheers,” Thomas muttered, and sipped. The drink tasted mostly of sugar, with undernotes of cheap gin. 

“C’mon, it’s this way.”

They trotted down a narrow, dimly-lit set of stairs, and after Mailer had a brief exchange on the subject of green carnations with a doorman in a waistcoat that would have given Carson conniptions, were granted admission to the downstairs bar. 

Here, the jazz music from upstairs was only slightly muted by the intervening floorboards, and Thomas was mildly shocked to see that there were still couples dancing—couples of men. The last time he’d been in one of these places, during the war, there hadn’t been anything like that going on. 

At least part of what he was familiar with still held. There were tables free, but Mailer led him over to a spot by the bar where the working-class lads were. He hated this part, lining up like tarts on the stroll for the toffs to make their selection. Still, he automatically posed to give the room what he knew was his best profile, and to keep his left hand toward the bar, where no one who mattered would see it. 

Mailer introduced him around to the other lads—calling him “Tommy,” a nickname Thomas had never liked—but they were nice enough sorts. One in particular, Thomas would have liked to know better, a little scrap of a thing with bright grey eyes and a shy smile. 

“Hullo,” Thomas said, smiling at him. “Sammy, is it?”

He nodded. “Haven’t seen you here before.”

“I’m just down from the country for a couple of days. Mail—uh, Oliver’s showing me around.” 

“I hope you enjoy it,” Sammy said politely, and resumed trying to catch the eye of a passing gentleman. 

Thomas wondered, sometimes, why they didn’t have pubs of their own. There were places just for the upper-class lot; Thomas knew about them, even if he’d never been in one. He put the question to Mailer, who looked at him uncomprehendingly for a moment, then said, “Because then we’d have to buy our own drinks, wouldn’t we?”

That would be a small price to pay, Thomas thought. A place like that, where it was all their sort, he could pick out who he wanted, instead of waiting for one of them to pick him. “I told you I was done with toffs,” he said instead. 

“You don’t have to fall in love with any of them,” Mailer answered. “There, what do you think of them?” He indicated a pair of gentlemen in white tie who were eyeing their group speculatively. 

“Hmph. You can have the one with the squint.”

“Fair enough. Smile.”

Mailer managed to catch the eye of the one with the squint, and the two bent their heads together. After a moment, the other one came over and said, “Would you chaps like to join us for a drink?”

“We’d love to,” Mailer answered with an easy smile. Thomas nodded and tried to look pleasant. 

But on the way over to the table, the other one—Maxwell, he said—latched on to Mailer’s arm, leaving Thomas with squinty. 

“I’m Beaumont,” he said squintily. 

It might even have been his real name—he looked like exactly the sort of person whose parents would think Beaumont was a Christian name. “Tommy,” he said. 

“You’re new here, aren’t you?”

“Just down from the country for a bit.” 

“How lucky for us all. What are you drinking?” he added, as a waiter came over.

“Ah—Champagne, if that’s all right,” he answered. “I’ve got an early start tomorrow, and that’ll be the safest thing.” And since he was stuck with squinty, he might as well take him for all he was worth.

“Very sensible of you,” Beaumont said. “A bottle, do you think?” he asked Maxwell. 

“Why not?” Maxwell answered. “And maybe some oysters?”

Thomas considered suggesting that oysters were all right with him if there wasn’t any caviar, but decided not to push his luck. After the waiter had gone, Beaumont asked Thomas what had brought him to London.

“Ah—work,” he said, after a moment’s consideration of whether it might be better to lie. 

“Oh? What do you do?”

“I’m a valet.” Doubtless, Beaumont would have preferred something more rugged. Mailer shot him a glare; he’d probably been planning to say he was a longshoreman or something. 

“ _Really_ ,” Beaumont said. “I wish my man looked like you.”

“I’m not that kind of valet.” If he’d wanted to be, he could have made the leap years ago. Admittedly, he’d once thought that being the Duke of Crowborough’s valet would be the perfect life, but he knew better now. In a situation like that, the gentleman would just about own him. 

“Oh, well,” Beaumont said, with a slight shrug.

“What about you?” Thomas asked, knowing full well that if Beaumont had a job, he wouldn’t admit it. Since he was stuck with squinty Beaumont, he saw no reason to make much of an effort at seeming pleasant. 

“Oh, I’m a remittance man,” Beaumont answered. “The family pays me a modest allowance to stay far away from the estate and keep my name out of the papers—a mutually agreeable arrangement for all concerned.”

“All right for some,” Thomas said sourly. His own family didn’t bother paying him to stay away. 

Beaumont cleared his throat. “If you’re short of funds, I could--”

Since he wasn’t trying to be pleasant, and honestly didn’t care much whether he got a leg over with Beaumont or not, he could answer exactly as he wanted to. “Do I look like a tart to you? Really? Is that what I look like?”

“Er, no, of course not,” Beaumont said, a little flustered. God knew he was probably used to having his thinly-veiled offers of payment accepted with fawning gratitude, but Thomas was in no mood. “I’m sorry, I meant no offense.”

“All right, then,” Thomas said grudgingly, accepting a glass of champagne from the returning waiter. 

“Here, try one of these,” Beaumont said hastily, offering him the oysters. “They do them well here—Oysters Rockefeller, they’re called.”

Right, that sort of bloke often liked to feel that he was bringing a bit of light and culture to the barely-civilized. “I like them a la Russe, myself.” Thomas wasn’t sure that he did, in fact, but he was curious as to how much he could get away with before Beaumont gave up on him and picked someone who was more willing to play the game. 

At least that much, apparently—Beaumont just said, “Oh, well, these are all right too, I think.”

“I suppose,” Thomas said. 

Up until then, he’d managed to keep his left hand out of sight, putting it under the table as soon as they’d sat down, but now he had to use it to steady the shell while he applied the oyster fork. “What’s this?” Beaumont said, touching the back of his glove.

“War injury,” Thomas said shortly. 

“Can I see?”

“No.” Across the table, Mailer was glaring daggers at him. Right; if Thomas succeeded in wearing out Beaumont’s patience, likely Mailer would end up out in the cold as well. And they didn’t have time to start over; not when he had to wake Lord Grantham in about seven hours. Fortifying himself with another sip of Champagne, he smiled and said, “It’s not very nice to look at. Were you in the War?”

“Just General Staff,” Beaumont said. “Not the Front. I was lucky.”

“Yeah, you were.” Everyone who hadn’t been to the Front was. 

Beaumont started nattering on about how awful it must have been to see “all those beautiful boys” killed. As a personal favor to Mailer, Thomas didn’t point out just how much more he would have had on his mind if he’d actually been there. Admittedly, he’d wondered the same thing himself before he went, but in all the filth and terror, sex had been pretty much the last thing on his mind. Whenever he hadn’t needed to focus on staying alive, a hot cup of tea and a dry pair of socks were much more pressing concerns. 

After he’d exhausted that subject, Beaumont moved on to talking about the theatre—then, Thomas had no trouble keeping his mouth shut, since he knew nothing at all about the subject. Beaumont’s constant name-dropping might have been irritating—he apparently knew all about which actors were sods and which weren’t—except that it seemed almost like Beaumont was, for some incomprehensible reason, trying to impress him. Thomas almost liked him, for that. 

Halfway through the second bottle of Champagne, Beaumont asked him, “Do you dance?”

“Sometimes,” Thomas answered. Pretty much only at the Downton servants’ ball. But he was good at it.

“Well, then?”

It took Thomas a moment to figure out what he meant. “What, with you?”

Beaumont managed a self-deprecating laugh. “I think I can manage to promise not to step on your feet.”

Thomas watched the dancers for a moment, considering. “Why not?”

Beaumont was vastly more tolerable when he wasn’t talking, Thomas discovered. And, while not exactly love’s young dream in the looks department, he was at least of more erotic interest than a block of wood, which about summed up Thomas’s response to all of his previous dance partners, from Daisy to the Dowager Countess of Grantham. 

When, after two foxtrots and a waltz, and the rest of the Champagne, Beaumont suggested going somewhere a little more private, the idea sounded a lot more appealing than Thomas would have thought. 

Thomas didn’t know what the arrangements were at this place, since he’d never been here before, but Beaumont did, and he soon found himself following Beaumont down another narrow, dim corridor, this one lined with doors, very close together.

“Here, this is us,” Beaumont said, opening a door numbered “8.” 

The room was small—barely a respectable closet—but clean. The narrow bed that took up most of the space showed no signs of previous occupants, which put it a cut above most places like it. After shrugging out of his jacket and hanging it on the doorknob, Thomas sat down on the bed. “Well?” Best not to seem to interested, now. That was part of the fantasy, for these blokes—that you were a real man, and you’d be doing this with a girl if you could. Not that he’d have agreed to the dancing—or even been in this place to begin with—if that were true, but now that they were here, he didn’t know what to do, if not play the part that was written for him. 

Beaumont sank to his knees in front of him. “Is this all right?”

“Yeah. Perfect.” 

It wasn’t perfect. Perfect had been the Duke, when Thomas thought he loved him. Perfect would have been him and Edward, in their own little cottage after the war. This wasn’t perfect. This was what he could have.

Fortunately, Beaumont was good enough at it that once he got started, Thomas forgot all about the ways it wasn’t, quite, perfect. 

Later, when they got out of the taxi a few streets away from the club, Mailer said, “I don’t know what the hell you thought you were playing at. Acting like you’re doing him some great bloody favor drinking his Champagne and eating his oysters.”

“I was doing him a great bloody favor,” Thomas answered. 

“I hope you know, the haughty ice-prince thing only worked because you’re new. They won’t line up every week to have you behave like you’re too good for them.”

“Since I’m not there every week, it doesn’t matter,” he pointed out. 

Mailer sighed in exasperation. “Did you have a good time, at least?”

Thomas considered the question. “You know, I think I did.” He slowed his steps as they neared the Club. “How do we get back inside?”

“Go around to the side door. Let me have two shillings.”

“What for?”

“To bribe the porter. I would pay it, but thanks to your little temper tantrum, mine didn’t offer me anything.”

“He probably wouldn’t have anyway,” Thomas said. He was clearly the more appealing of the two of them. But he gave Mailer the two shillings anyway.

He tried to be quiet going into his room, but he’d forgotten that he never put his suitcase away, and tripped over it. 

“What the hell are you crashing around for?” asked the man sleeping in the other bed—Clark, Thomas thought his name was.

“Shh. Go back to sleep,” Thomas said.

Clark turned over, muttering something about provincial bumpkins and waking decent people in the middle of the bloody night. Thomas ignored him. 

Thanks to vigorous exercise and plenty of Champagne, Thomas fell asleep almost as soon as he’d undressed. It seemed like mere moments later when someone was pounding on the door, calling, “Six o’clock!”

His roommate got up and switched on the electric lights, saying with what Thomas thought was malicious glee, “Better shift it, if you don’t want to miss breakfast.”

“Oh, God,” Thomas groaned, shielding his eyes with one hand. 

“That’s what you get, stumbling in here in the middle of the bloody night. Where were you?”

“Nowhere,” Thomas said, sitting up and rubbing his hand over his face. Clark was doing quite a lot of unnecessary rattling around at the washbasin, doubtless thinking that it would be a suitable payback for a man with a morning head, but fortunately Thomas was just _tired_ , not hung over. He faced the servants’ hall breakfast with only minor qualms, which he blamed on the poisonous green drink from the beginning of the evening. He looked around for Mailer, to tell him so, but he hadn’t come down. Likely his gentleman was sleeping till noon, the lucky bastard. 

Still, Thomas managed to look none the worse for wear when he woke his lordship and got him ready for the day. He’d been absolutely right to insist on Champagne, no matter what Mailer thought about it. Then his lordship said he expected to be at the Home Secretary’s offices for some hours, so Thomas snuck back upstairs for a nap.

He slept more deeply than he meant to, but everything seemed to be going his way today: Mailer came up just before noon and woke him with the news that there was a telegram for his gentleman. Thomas panicked for only a second before Mailer added, “He’s not back yet, but the house manager has started wondering where you got to.”

“Christ, _start_ with that, why don’t you,” he said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and yawning.

Quickly putting himself in order, he trotted downstairs and collected the telegram, carefully making no excuses for where he had been—offering an explanation, un-asked, would suggest that there was something to explain. 

Lord Grantham returned not long after, saying they could start back to Downton after luncheon. 

“Very good, my lord. There’s a telegram for you.” He presented it.

His lordship opened it. “Thank God,” he said. To Thomas, he added, “Lady Sybil’s arrived safely at Downton.”

“That is good news, my lord,” Thomas agreed. He’d thought the telegram must have news of Lady Sybil, but he hadn’t quite dared try to open it himself. 

“Yes. I’ll need to send a reply.”

After getting his lordship settled in the club’s reading room with the telegram form and a drink, Thomas hurried to pack and make the arrangements for the journey back. On the way to the train station, he tried asking his lordship how things had gone with the Home Secretary—he really ought to have picked up more than he had about what was going on—but his lordship just said he’d gotten what he went there for, and offered no further details. 

Still, it had been a good trip, Thomas thought, as he carried the suitcases through the downstairs passage back at Downton, and Molesley popped out of the servants’ hall, saying, “You’re back!”

Obviously. “I am,” he agreed. “Anything happen here?”

Molesley considered for a moment. “There’s a new footman. Came today.” Thomas wanted to ask which one, but before he could, Molesley continued with a question of his own. “How was London?”

“Quite fun, as a matter of fact,” he answered honestly. He’d have to be more careful if Molesley had further questions—on the other hand, he could admit to the jazz club, the Champagne, and the dancing, as long as he was vague about the company. 

Molesley didn’t ask. “Has the firebrand been saved?”

Thomas had no idea—he wasn’t sure what outcome Lord Grantham had been trying for, or if he’d told Thomas the truth about achieving it. But Molesley’s question hinted that it was now confirmed that Branson was, in fact, on the run from the police. “That’s not for me to say, is it, Mr. Molesley?” That ought to give the impression he knew and wasn’t telling. “I’d better take these upstairs.”

After unpacking his lordship’s case, Thomas took his own up to his room. On the way there, he passed what had been William’s old room, the door slightly ajar. The new footman? He glanced in as he passed, catching sight of broad, golden-coloured shoulders and bright blond hair. Jimmy Kent. 

He backed up. Surely, not talking to a man because he was undressing suggested that the sight of a man undressing was something less than completely unremarkable. “You got the job, then?” he asked. He was putting on his livery; Thomas wondered who’d helped him alter it. But then, Jimmy being normal-sized, maybe he hadn’t needed to. 

He turned with a grin. “I’m on my way, Mr. Barrow.” He hesitated. “They say you were a footman once.”

“That’s right,” Thomas said, a little stiffly. He was a valet now, though, and Jimmy had better remember it, no matter how handsome he was.

“So can I come to you if there’s anything I need to know?”

 _That_ , Thomas thought, was how you asked a valet for his expert advice—polite, direct, and not getting ahead of yourself. Not sending your aunt to ask him to put you on the fast path to being a valet. And the idea of spending more time with Jimmy was…not without its appeal. “Certainly. Why not?”

With a parting smile, he continued on his way. Yes, having Thomas in his corner would be just the thing for young Jimmy Kent, Thomas thought. He’d need an advantage, since O’Brien surely wouldn’t give up championing Alfred at every turn. 

He was pleased to see, when he returned downstairs after dressing his lordship, that Carson had Jimmy taking the meat in, and Alfred the sauce and vegetables. That would show O’Brien. His first day, and already Thomas’s protégé was being set above Alfred. Of course, Thomas hadn’t had time to do anything for him yet—but it just went to show that he knew how to pick a winner, didn’t it?

The kitchen was working on the downstairs supper, but Thomas got one of the girls to fetch him a cup of tea and a biscuit anyway—he deserved it, having had to make do with railway tea earlier. Taking them into the servants’ hall, he set about trying to find out what had gone on in his absence. 

“Lady Sybil’s arrived,” Anna offered.

“I heard,” he said. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

“It sounds like she and Mr. Branson are going to be staying for a while.”

Lady Sybil wouldn’t like that much, Thomas thought, not after all she’d gone through to get away. But she’d probably like it better than having her husband in prison. “Probably just as well, with the baby expected so soon.”

Not long after, Thomas was drawn to the servants’ hall doorway by the sound of Jimmy coming down the stairs. Perfectly natural, he told himself, to be curious about how the new man had fared on his first day. 

O’Brien joined him to watch them come down. For a second, it was almost like the old days, and Thomas wanted to say something to her—about the new man, about his evening in London, anything. But, he reminded himself, she was here to see how Jimmy had stacked up against Alfred. 

Well enough, Thomas supposed, since all Mr. Carson could find to complain about was that he wanted to call Jimmy “James.” Not like Alfred’s first dinner, where there had been plenty in his performance to criticize. 

“He’s nice, that new bloke, isn’t he?” O’Brien observed. 

It was her normal voice, not the biting one or the syrupy one. He could have almost been fooled into thinking she wanted to be done quarreling. But no—she meant something by it. Whether something about him, or something about Jimmy, he didn’t know. “Why do you say that?”

“Oh, only an impression, that’s all.” She left before Thomas could ask anything else.

During supper, she was far too solicitous of Jimmy—asking him about his previous experience, suggesting that if he was unsure of anything, he look to Alfred as an example. Thomas didn’t like it one bit. Likely, if Jimmy did turn to either of them for advice, they’d find a way to lead him astray. 

Jimmy ought to be warned, but Thomas wasn’t quite sure how to do it. Not at supper in front of everyone, that was certain. 

He got his chance a while after supper, when he was waiting for his lordship to finally retire for the night—having had an early night last night himself, he seemed to be in no hurry, to Thomas’s vast irritation. The rest of the family had gone up, and most of the servants, too. Jimmy was lingering over a last cup of tea in the servants’ hall, and Thomas sat down next to him. “The first day seems to have gone well,” he said.

Jimmy grinned at him. “Do you think so?”

“Certainly. If it hadn’t, we’d all have heard about it at supper. We did on Alfred’s first evening.”

He would have been happy to tell the story, but Jimmy didn’t ask. “Do you think there’s any chance of changing Mr. Carson’s mind, about calling me James?”

“I doubt it,” Thomas said. “He likes things his way. But you can be Jimmy to me if you like,” he offered.

“I’d like that.”

With a slight shrug, Thomas took out his cigarettes, offering Jimmy the case. 

“No, thanks—I never picked up the habit.”

Damn. He could have used a new smoking companion. Lighting one up, he asked, “How are you settling in?”

“Everyone’s been very friendly.”

Thomas just bet they were. “About that.”

“What?”

“Miss O’Brien. You know she’s Alfred’s auntie.”

Jimmy nodded. “He said so.”

“I’d take anything she tells you with a grain of salt—she’ll always favor him.”

“Well, that’s only natural, isn’t it?”

“Of course,” Thomas said hastily. “But she’s always pushing him forward for things he’s not really qualified to do. Like being first footman.” 

“That must be difficult for him.”

He wasn’t getting it, Thomas realized. But how much more direct could he be? Jimmy wouldn’t believe him, if he came out and said just how devious O’Brien was. “I suppose it is. But she might think making you look bad is a way to make him look better, if you see what I mean.”

Jimmy nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you, Mr. Barrow.”

“Any time.”

#

“Young master Kent seems to have made quite an impression on his first day,” Elsie observed as she buttered a piece of toast for Mr. Carson.

Mr. Carson huffed. “There will be trouble from that, mark my words.” She knew that Carson had favored the other candidate, but once Lady Mary weighed in with a preference for the handsome one, that had been enough to override his judgment. “You’ll need to watch the maids closely now that he’s in the house.”

“I will. But if there’s trouble, it won’t be one of the maids getting into it on her own,” she pointed out. Jimmy was an incorrigible flirt; there was no other word for it. She was fairly sure she’d seen him flirting with the dog, and if she were Carson, she’d have wanted to keep a close eye on him around the house plants. “I gather Mr. Barrow approves,” she added slyly.

Mr. Carson contrived to miss her point. “As valet, the footmen are none of his concern.”

Not any more than they were the maids’ concern—but there it was. 

“He ought to have been waiting at table while we were short-handed,” Mr. Carson continued. “I notice Anna kept up with her duties as housemaid while acting as Lady Mary’s maid.”

“She did,” Elsie agreed, taking her own second piece out of the toaster. “Of course, I asked her to,” she added mildly. 

Another huff. “Can you imagine how Thomas would have answered if I’d asked him to go on waiting at table?”

“I suppose I’ll have to imagine it,” Elsie said, “since you never did.”


	5. All Those Who Are Not Busy Being Born

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The household has a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, thanks to Shin0716 for proofreading, and any dialogue you recognize is from the show. In addition, the chapter title is also Not Mine.

“So I said to the bloke, maybe that’s how you do it in London, but it’s not how we do it here,” Jimmy finished with a smile.

Thomas smiled back. “You showed him,” he agreed. Jimmy, he’d learned in the week or so since his arrival, was full of amusing stories. Lately, Thomas had made a point of getting in to meals early, so he could encourage Jimmy to sit next to him. It really brightened up the day, having him about. 

Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes came in, finally, and after the usual rigmarole of standing up and sitting down again, they were finally able to start dinner. 

Over the discreet clatter of utensils and crockery, Anna, on his other side, said, “Mrs. Hughes, before I forget, Lady Sybil will be taking her meals in her room for the duration. She’s started her lying-in.”

“She has?” Thomas said, turning to look at Anna. 

Anna gave him a questioning look, probably wondering why he cared. 

He hadn’t managed to engineer a chance to talk to Lady Sybil since she’d come home—he’d been busy, helping Jimmy settle in and catching up on the gossip he’d missed being in London for two days. Now he wouldn’t have another chance until after the baby had come; there was no excuse at all that he could use to call on her in her bedroom. But he couldn’t say that, so he said instead, “Seems a bit early.” He actually had no idea, except a vague sense that modern girls didn’t go in for long confinements. 

“As you think it’s your business,” Anna said, “Dr. Clarkson says the baby’s moved into position for delivery. So it could be any time now.” 

“I don’t think this is a suitable subject for mixed company,” Mr. Carson said. 

“I’m quite certain it isn’t,” Mrs. Hughes agreed. 

Thomas wanted to point out that he wasn’t the one who brought up obstetrical details, but that sort of thing never went well for him. 

Later that night, it seemed that Anna was being proved right. Thomas was woken by what sounded like the usual early-morning ruckus of everyone getting up to start the day, even though—he checked his watch—it was two in the morning. A strip of light coming in through the crack under the door showed that the lights in the passage were on. 

Pulling on his dressing gown, he went out into the passage. “What’s going on?” he asked Alfred, who was passing, in his livery trousers and shirt but with his tie and jacket missing. 

“The baby’s coming,” Alfred told him.

“And that means we all have to be up in the middle of the night?” The light was on in the women’s side, too. 

“Jimmy and I have to be, to let the doctor in,” Alfred said. “And Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore are getting up in case they want tea or something.”

And everyone else, Thomas supposed, was getting up because they didn’t want to miss the excitement. All right for some, but he couldn’t be the only one lazing about in bed. What if his lordship needed him for something? He got dressed and reported to the servants’ hall with the others. 

“Do you think we’ll be able to go back to bed before it’s time to get up?” Ivy asked as they were yawning and finding seats. 

“These things can take hours,” Anna said regretfully. “When my youngest sister was born, it took sixteen and a half hours.”

“When my sister had her first, it started at midnight and the baby wasn’t born until ten the next night,” O’Brien observed.

“That’s nothing,” said one of the housemaids. “My cousin’s neighbor’s took a day and a half.”

The women continued telling obstetrical stories for some time. With Mr. Carson not in the room, there was no one to stop them. Once the subject of lengthy labours was exhausted, they moved on to other things that were even worse. They lowered their voices and clustered at one end of the table, with an empty seat or two separating them from Thomas and Molesley, who were the sole representatives of the male sex present, but Thomas couldn’t help catching the occasional horrifying detail, like, “—had to sew her back up with a needle and thread,” or “—came out _sideways_.” From the look on Molesley’s face, he’d heard it too. 

For once, Thomas was relieved when Alfred came into the room, and would have been even if he hadn’t been followed closely by Jimmy. “Doctor’s arrived,” Alfred said. “Say, does anyone know how long this might take?”

“ _Don’t_ ask,” Thomas said. 

Fortunately, with a few more men in the room, the women regained some sense of decency, and turned to the subject of whether they thought it would be a girl or a boy. 

“She hasn’t had any cravings, as far as I know,” Mrs. Patmore said, bringing in a pot of tea. “You always get cravings with a boy.”

“I heard if you’re carrying low, it’s a girl,” Clara the housemaid suggested. 

It all seemed a little silly to Thomas, since they’d know for certain before long, but he preferred it to the earlier subject. 

As it turned out, they barely needed the tea. Not long after Mrs. Patmore had brought it, Mr. Carson came in. “It seems there has been a false alarm,” he said, once everyone had stood up. “Dr. Clarkson has just gone, and the family are returning to bed. I suggest we do the same.”

With a lot of groans and mutters about how they’d got up for nothing, everyone started trickling out. “What’s that mean, a false alarm?” Thomas asked once the crowd had thinned out. 

Carson huffed, looked down his nose, and didn’t answer. 

“I’m sure everything’s just fine,” Mrs. Hughes said soothingly. 

Thomas didn’t see how she could know that, but there was no use arguing the point. He went back to bed.

The next morning came entirely too soon, as far as he was concerned, and he wound up coming down to breakfast a little behind schedule. Jimmy was already sitting on the other side of the table, next to Molesley. The place on the other side of him was free, but sitting there would put him entirely too far down from the head of the table—it was where the hall-boys and housemaids usually sat. He claimed his usual place next to Mrs. Hughes, and the spot where he liked to have Jimmy sit was filled in by Anna. 

Still, Thomas thought, trying to look on the bright side, having Jimmy across the table meant he could look at him without being obvious about it. 

Not that Thomas particularly wanted to look at him, or that there was any reason why he shouldn’t. Nothing wrong with taking an interest in a promising young member of the staff. He’d have been quite flattered if someone had done the same for him when he first came to the house. 

As they finished eating, Mr. Carson reminded them, “The specialist from London, Sir Phillip Tapsell, will be arriving this evening, to stay until the baby is born.” To Mrs. Hughes, he added, “You might put him nearer the family, rather than in the bachelors’ wing. He may be needed in the night.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Hughes said. “We’ll put him in the green room.”

“And if he doesn’t bring a valet--” Thomas assumed an alert and cheerful expression, hoping he would pick Jimmy. That way, Thomas could advise him. “—Mr. Barrow, I hope you won’t mind looking after him.”

Damn. “Of course, Mr. Carson.” 

“His lordship is eager that Sir Phillip be shown every courtesy—he doesn’t often leave London to attend a birth, but his lordship asked him specially.”

“Of course,” Thomas said again, more cheerfully this time. Naturally, if it was that important, they couldn’t have a mere footman looking after him.

“I’m sure Lady Sybil will be quite honored to have him,” Mrs. Hughes said. If it had been anyone else, Thomas would have thought she was winding Carson up. 

Ivy, who was collecting the dirty plates, commented, “I think I’d rather be in the city, if I were having a baby, with all the modern inventions.”

Thomas wondered what those were—but then, given some of the things he’d heard last night, perhaps he was better off not knowing.

“Far away from everyone you know and trust?” Anna asked. “I don’t think I would.”

Naturally, if Anna were having a baby—if, for instance, she’d had time to start one before Bates was arrested—they’d be making nearly as much fuss over it as they were over Lady Sybil’s. His lordship would probably have called in Sir Phillip whoever he was for Baby Bates, too. 

“What are you talking about having babies for, Ivy?” Mrs. Patmore asked. “I think we can leave that for a little further down the menu, thank you.”

“It’s always an idea to be prepared,” Jimmy suggested. 

“I expect you’re always prepared,” Thomas said. Prepared for what, was the question. Was Jimmy thinking about having babies with Ivy? He certainly hoped not. That is, as his mentor, Thomas thought he ought to be focusing on his career right now. That was it.

“I try to be, Mr. Barrow,” Jimmy said with a bright smile.

Thomas smiled back, meeting Jimmy’s eyes. Yes, definite advantage of being on opposite sides of the table.

“I don’t like the direction this conversation is taking,” Carson declared. If he didn’t like _that_ , God only knew what he’d think of the conversation the women had inflicted on him and Molesley last night, Thomas thought. “Could we all begin the day’s tasks, please?” As everyone pushed back their chairs, he added, “And remember, Lady Sybil is in a delicate condition, so no noise on the gallery!”

When was there ever noise on the gallery? Thomas wondered. It wasn’t like the hall boys were allowed to run up and down it whooping like Red Indians even when no one was pregnant. 

“It’s exciting, though, isn’t it?” Ivy asked the room in general. “Having a baby in the house?”

Daisy, who was bringing her ladyship’s breakfast tray to O’Brien, said, “It won’t make much difference to you. Now get back in the kitchen and do as you’re told!” She was clearly trying to imitate Mrs. Patmore’s stern tone, but it wasn’t very convincing.

Ivy went, though. 

“Well, I think that message got through,” O’Brien observed, then sailed out, tray held high.

His lordship was already up and dressed, so Thomas didn’t have anywhere to go just at the moment. He was lingering over a cup of tea when Daisy came in with one of her own. “That girl!” she said, sitting down next to him. “If I don’t watch her every minute, she spends more time flirting with footmen than she does on her work.”

“I’d noticed,” Thomas said, lighting a cigarette. She still wasn’t quite carrying it off, but Thomas thought he would encourage her.

“We weren’t like that,” she continued. 

Thomas supposed they weren’t, but only because she hadn’t quite realized William was alive, let alone interested, and he’d only encouraged her to keep William from thinking he was cock of the walk. “It’s raising the school leaving age that did it,” he said sagely. He’d read a newspaper editorial the other day that said so, anyhow. He’d been reading Lord Grantham’s paper lately, after he’d finished with it—it seemed more suitable for a valet than the illustrated paper he usually read. “Stops them developing a decent work ethic.”

Daisy nodded. “I’d been working for years when I was her age. But,” she added, “I thought you didn’t go into service until you were fourteen.”

That was hardly the point. “Yes, but I knew I was lucky. I didn’t think I had a right to go on amusing myself as I liked indefinitely.” Before she could argue that two more years was hardly “indefinitely,” or any similar nitpicking detail, he went on, “Perhaps things will improve once Mr. Carson settles on a first footman. James has a much more serious attitude.”

“Alfred’s serious,” Daisy said.

Thomas gave her a scathing look. 

“Or he would be if Ivy didn’t keep turning his head,” she amended.

“Perhaps,” Thomas said generously. “In any case, they ought to have more on their minds than the opposite sex.”

“Right,” Daisy agreed, with a firm nod. 

Before they could further discuss what was wrong with the Youth of Today, Mrs. Patmore came in. “Daisy! You said you were having a cup of tea, not a mid-morning nap. We’ve got to finish the marketing list.”

With a world-weary sigh, Daisy got up, taking her teacup with her. 

“And haven’t you got work to do?” Mrs. Patmore asked Thomas. 

She left before Thomas could form an answer, which was a shame because he was sure it would have been blistering. As soon as he’d thought it up.

Still, he decided, he might as well get a move on. If he’d have two gentlemen to dress for dinner, and one of them he’d have to unpack before he could do it, he’d best make sure everything was as it should be in his lordship’s dressing room.

He was pottering around in there a bit later when Jimmy tapped at the door. “Mr. Barrow?”

“Jimmy! How are you?”

“Fine,” Jimmy said, with a slight frown. “I wondered if you could help me with something.”

“I’m sure I can,” he said. 

“Mr. Carson’s asked me to wind the clocks, and I’m not sure how to do it. Miss O’Brien said you were the expert.”

“I am,” he said. But why had O’Brien told him so? It wasn’t like her to do him a favor like that, not these days. He’d have expected her to claim Alfred knew how to do it. “Just let me finish this, and I’ll show you.” He was only organizing the sock drawer, nothing really urgent, but he didn’t want to look too eager. 

They started with the long-case clock in the entry hall, which had always been a favorite of Thomas’s. “They should be done once a week, and you always check t hat they match up and re-set the ones that need it. This one usually keeps very good time, but the carriage clock in the library always loses a couple of minutes a week. Now, the worst thing you can do is over-wind it; if that happens you have to take it apart and fix it—or ask me to. If you under-wind it, then it might stop before you planned on winding it again. That’s not as bad, but you still don’t want it to happen.”

He opened the clock case, taking the winding key out of the little shelf provided for it. “This one’s got three sets of gears, and you have to wind all three, so it’ll strike on the half-hour and quarter-hour. You can start anywhere; this one’s not fussy.” He put the key in the first winding point and turned it. “There. You try the second one.” He stepped back and handed Jimmy the key. 

Jimmy put the key in and started turning it. “Like this? How do I know when it’s done?”

“You’ll be able to feel it, once you’re familiar with it. Here.” He put his hand over Jimmy’s. “Keep turning—there. Do you feel a slight increase in the resistance?”

“I think so,” Jimmy said, furrowing his brow slightly.

To stand there holding Jimmy’s hand for much longer would definitely look odd. Thomas stepped back a little, putting a friendly hand on his other shoulder. “That’s what you’re looking for. Never go past the point where the clock is comfortable.”

“You make it sound like a living thing.”

“Clocks are living things,” Thomas said. His dad had always said so, at least. “My dad was a clockmaker. I grew up with clocks. Understand them.” He smiled, thinking of the days he’d spent, when he was small, sitting under the workbench in the shop, listening to them tick. But that was probably getting too personal; what if Jimmy asked why he wasn’t a clockmaker himself? “Never wind them in the early morning, before a room is warmed up,” he continued more briskly. “Nor too late, when the night air cools them down.” Jimmy half-turned, giving Thomas his profile to look at instead of the back of his head. Suddenly, Thomas became aware of just how close they were. “Find a time when the family’s out of the room.” He was close enough to kiss him, almost. 

Behind them, the door to the servants’ staircase opened. Guiltily, Thomas stepped back, dropping his hand from Jimmy’s shoulder. Stupid—it didn’t matter if anyone saw them; he wasn’t doing anything wrong. “Try the third one.”

Jimmy put the key in the third winding-point and turned it, quickly at first, then very slowly. “There,” he said. “I think I’ve got it.”

Thomas reached up to check; Jimmy moved his hand off the key very quickly. Probably just as well. Thomas applied a little pressure to the key. “Yes, that’s about right. You’re a quick study.”

“Thank you, Mr. Barrow.”

Thomas considered suggesting that he could call him “Thomas,” when it was just them…but no, he’d better not. What if Alfred got ideas? “Check your watch against it,” he advised, checking his own. “We’ll do the library clock next; that one’s a bit temperamental.”

All in all, they spent a very pleasant half-hour winding clocks. Thomas wanted to suggest they do it again next week, but winding clocks was really not all that difficult—he didn’t see any plausible way to claim Jimmy might need help with the chore again. So instead he said, “If you have any problems with them, you know where to find me.”

“I do. Thank you again, Mr. Barrow.”

“Certainly,” he said with a smile. He seemed to be doing a lot of smiling lately. “And let me know when Mr. Carson asks you to clean the workings; that’s a bigger job, but I’m sure I can find the time to help you get started.”

Sir Phillip Tapsell arrived on the seven o’clock train, without a valet. The train was a bit late, and Thomas had a job to do getting the creases out of his evening things in time for the dressing gong. Not that anyone appreciated it. Sir Phillip wasn’t in his room when Thomas went up with his things, so he went and did his lordship first. By the time he made it back to the green room, Sir Phillip had gotten halfway dressed by himself. “Ah,” he said. “I thought perhaps providing valets for guests had gone out of fashion in the rural districts.”

“Sorry, sir,” Thomas said. “I was assisting Lord Grantham. I can see to you first in future, if you like.”

“It doesn’t really matter,” Sir Phillip answered.

Thomas agreed, but if it didn’t, why complain about it in the first place? He fastened Sir Phillip’s cufflinks, saying as he did, “I was a medical orderly in the war, you know, sir.”

“Were you,” Sir Phillip said.

“I even worked in the hospital here in the village for a bit.”

“That’s fascinating,” Sir Phillip answered in a tone that suggested it was anything but. 

Well. Forgive him for trying to make conversation. Thomas did up Sir Phillip’s tie and held his evening coat for him to put on without further commentary.

When he’d finished, Sir Phillip turned to him. “I breakfast promptly at seven. One poached egg, two slices of wholemeal toast, with marmalade.”

And Thomas would be bringing it for him, he supposed. His lordship always came down to breakfast, so he hardly ever had to mess about with trays. “Yes, sir. Tea, as well?”

“Of course.”

He relayed these instructions to Daisy, who responded, “I’m a little busy right now, Thomas!”

“He doesn’t want it now; he wants it in the morning,” Thomas answered. “And it’s Mr. Barrow.”

“Tell Ivy!”

Ivy wasn’t particularly impressed by the news either. “I’m trying to get dinner ready to go up!”

“Well, make sure you have his poached egg ready to go up at seven tomorrow,” Thomas said. “His lordship wants him shown every courtesy.” Hadn’t she been in the room when Carson said that?

“His lordship probably wants him shown his dinner while it’s still hot, too.”

“I imagine he does, but--”

“Please get out of the way, Mr. Barrow!”

Thomas retreated to the servants’ hall. He clearly did not get enough respect in this house, if kitchen maids felt they could yell at him. It was hardly his fault Sir Phillip wanted breakfast in bed, was it?

“Next time, you might wait and give the breakfast orders _after_ they’re finished with dinner,” suggested Anna, who had seen the whole thing. 

“Maybe I will,” he said. It wasn’t much of a retort, and Anna seemed to know it—she just shook her head and sighed. 

He half expected that they wouldn’t have it ready on time in the morning, just to make him look stupid, but when he finished his own breakfast and went into the kitchen, ready to give them a piece of his mind, Daisy put the tray into his hands. “Poached egg and wholemeal toast.”

“Thanks,” he said. 

That was nearly the only thing that went right that morning. Bringing the tray back down, he ran into Alfred on the stairs and ended up with cold tea splashed on his shirt and tie. That meant he had to run up to his room and change before anyone saw it. Lord Grantham was left waiting in the dressing room, and asked Thomas if looking after two gentlemen was too much for him. 

Then when he found Daisy drinking tea in the servants’ hall, and asked if he could have a cup, she snapped at him. “I’ve better things to do than fetch cups of tea! I’m an assistant cook.”

“All right,” he said. “I’ll go ask Ivy.”

“Ivy!” she said, throwing up her hands.

Things improved in the afternoon. Alfred disappeared for a while—out for a walk with Ivy, according to Jimmy. Oddly, having both nuisances out of the way at once didn’t seem to improve Daisy’s mood one bit. Jimmy was at a bit of a loose end, with neither of them about, and spent most of the afternoon sitting with Thomas in the servants’ hall, showing him how he could make buttons disappear using sleight of hand. 

“How’d you learn to do that?” Thomas asked.

“Growing up, my neighbor was a stage magician. I can do rabbits out of hats, too—but I’d need a rabbit and a hat.”

“What about sawing people in half?”

“You need a special cabinet for that,” he said. “And two ladies in bathing dresses. I don’t think Mr. Carson would approve.”

He might not, at that. Which was a shame, since Thomas could think of several people he’d like to see cut in half. 

Alfred must have gotten a bee in his bonnet during his countryside ramble, because when he came back, just in time for tea, he was once again insisting that he ought to be first footman instead of Jimmy. Thomas suspected Ivy of putting him up to it; it was just like a girl to think something like that ought to be decided based on which bloke she fancied. “I have been in the house longer; that’s all I’m saying,” he said as he took his place at the table. 

“It’s not your place to decide, is it?” Thomas reminded him. 

“No more than it’s yours,” O’Brien put in. 

“Nor yours,” he told her. 

Then Mr. Carson came in, so they had to let it drop. Mrs. Hughes introduced a new subject by asking, “How is Lady Sybil faring?”

“She’s not very comfortable,” Anna answered. “That new doctor, Sir Phillip, thinks it’ll be soon.”

“That’s good,” Thomas said. As far as he was concerned, the sooner Sir Phillip left Downton, the better. 

“I think she is eager to have it over with,” Anna said. 

That too, Thomas supposed. 

As it turned out, it hardly mattered who was acting as first footman that evening—the fish course had just gone up when Jimmy came back down and announced that dinner was “suspended.”

Thomas didn’t quite know why it was suspended. Lady Sybil was having the baby, of course, but most of the family were just sitting in the drawing room waiting for news—Carson kept going up and down with drinks and cups of tea; he certainly wouldn’t have been doing that if they were in Lady Sybil’s room. They could have waited just as well in the dining room, and had their dinner while they did it. 

It soon became clear that this was not another false alarm. Anna came down a couple of times to fetch things, and pass word about how things were going—these reports were mostly passed through Mr. Carson, so they were fortunately free of excessive detail. 

As the usual time for the downstairs dinner neared, Thomas wandered into the kitchen to see if anything was in progress. The amount of activity was encouraging at first, but after watching for a few minutes, he realized that they were still dealing with the cancelled upstairs dinner. 

“Mince up that chicken,” Mrs. Patmore said to Ivy. “If this goes on much longer, they’ll be wanting a platter of sandwiches sent up.”

“What about my soufflés?” Daisy asked. “We can’t hold them over much longer.”

“No,” Mrs. Patmore agreed. “Better get them out of the oven before they burn.”

Daisy did so—it was chocolate soufflé, in individual ramekins. “They came out perfect,” she said sadly. 

“Right,” Mrs. Patmore said, wiping her hands on her apron. “We’ll have to eat them.”

“We will?” Daisy asked.

“We can’t let them go to waste,” Mrs. Patmore said sensibly. 

There weren’t nearly enough to go around, of course. Thomas managed to snag one before too many of the others found out, and retreated to the servants’ hall with it. He thought he might share with Jimmy, but before he could offer, Ivy came in with another one and gave it to him. Daisy was right about her, Thomas thought darkly. First Alfred, now Jimmy. Was there anything in trousers she wouldn’t flirt with? 

The thought put him off his appetite slightly, so he retreated again, this time to the corridor. He’d just leaned up against the wall and pierced the soufflé with a spoon when Mrs. Hughes came down the stairs. 

“Where did you get that?” she asked.

“Mrs. Patmore was giving them away,” he answered, a little defensively. He’d hardly be standing here eating it in plain sight otherwise. “Since there’s no way to hold them over.” 

“Hm,” Mrs. Hughes said. “I wonder if she has any more?” She headed for the kitchen. 

While she was gone, Thomas quickly took his first bite. It was the first time he’d had chocolate soufflé that hadn’t collapsed or gone cold. He was slightly disappointed to find that it tasted pretty much the same. The texture, he supposed, was what all the fuss was about. 

Mrs. Hughes emerged from the kitchen, empty handed. “Too late, I’m afraid,” she said, sounding disappointed. 

“I was in the right place at the right time,” he answered. Mrs. Hughes must have been upstairs dealing with something to do with the birth. Taking them boiling water or linens or something—Thomas had a vague idea, from novels, that these things were essential to the process in some way. If she’d been O’Brien, and it had been the old days, she’d have badgered him into giving her half by pointing out she was working while he was standing around the kitchen looking for handouts. And he’d been planning to share with Jimmy. “Er, do you want some of mine?” 

Her face brightened. “Why thank you, Mr. Barrow.”

They leaned against the wall, holding the ramekin between them and trading the spoon back and forth. It would have been much more fun with Jimmy—but Jimmy was probably sharing his with Ivy. 

“That’s very nice,” Mrs. Hughes said. “I’ll have to give Mrs. Patmore my compliments.”

“I think Daisy made them,” Thomas answered. 

“I’ll have to give _her_ my compliments, then.” 

“Is everything going all right?” Thomas asked, with a slight nod toward the ceiling. 

“As well as can be expected, I think,” she said. “We may be in for a long wait.” She scraped the last of the custard from the bottom of the dish. “Well, that was just enough to whet the appetite. They might not be hungry upstairs, but I think I’ll ask Mrs. Patmore what she can put out for us.”

What she could put out turned out to be mostly bread and cheese, with a bit of cold meat from last night’s dinner. Thomas would have rather had more soufflé, but at least they were getting something. Once the dishes were cleared, Molesley got out the draughts board and started trying to find someone to play with him; Thomas finally agreed to give him a game just to shut him up. 

Near midnight, Anna came down, her face paler than usual. 

“Is something wrong, Anna?” Mrs. Hughes asked. “Sit down; have a cup of tea, if you have time.”

She sat. “Thank you. I’ll go back up in a few minutes; the nurse asked everyone to leave the room for a bit.”

“I’m sure that’s normal,” Mrs. Hughes said soothingly.

Anna shook her head. “Dr. Clarkson is recommending a Cesarean section.”

“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Hughes. 

“That can’t be good,” Thomas said. 

After gulping the tea, Anna continued, “I don’t exactly understand why—it isn’t stuck. Dr. Clarkson thinks it’s important to deliver it quickly. He said—I’m not sure what he said. Just that it could make her ill if it goes on much longer.”

“My medical training didn’t exactly cover obstetrics,” Thomas said, “but opening up the abdomen’s always risky. Dr. Clarkson wouldn’t be suggesting it if there wasn’t something really wrong.”

“That’s the thing,” Anna said. “The other doctor thinks she’s all right. But she doesn’t seem all right. She was…confused. She seemed to think she was back at the hospital, during the war—she told Dr. Clarkson she wouldn’t be lying there if she were supposed to be on duty.”

“That happens a lot,” Thomas said. “I mean, the wounded men, they’d say all kinds of things. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything.” A raging infection could cause delirium, but she couldn’t have picked one up this quickly—in the trenches, maybe, but not in her own bed in England. Couldn’t be a knock to the head, either—Thomas didn’t know much about how babies were born, but he was fairly certain the mother’s head was not involved. “Has she lost a lot of blood?” That could happen in childbirth, he thought. “That makes you dizzy.” If had, he thought, she’d need a transfusion. He knew how to do those; maybe he could be of use—no, that was stupid. There were two doctors on hand, as well as Dr. Clarkson’s regular nurse and the nurse brought in specially to attend to Lady Sybil. They weren’t going to need any help from a former Army medical orderly. 

Anna shook her head. “No, nothing like that.”

“Or if they gave her something for the pain, that could make her confused,” Thomas added.

“Maybe they did,” Anna said hopefully. “I don’t know. They could have.”

“Well, then,” Mrs. Hughes said. “Let’s not borrow trouble.”

Anna finished the tea. “I’d better go back up, in case she needs anything.”

At first, Thomas waited anxiously for further news, but he gradually relaxed as more time went by without an announcement that Lady Sybil was being moved to the hospital for emergency surgery. Sir Phillip must have been right after all. Not that it was precisely a surprise to hear that Dr. Clarkson's prediction of doom and gloom was unfounded—during the war, he’d tended to predict that everyone was going to die until proven otherwise.

“Do you want to play, Mr. Barrow?” Jimmy asked, holding up a deck of cards.

It would hardly make any difference to the outcome whether he played cards or not. “All right,” he agreed, taking out a cigarette. “Deal me in.”

Another pot of tea, several cigarettes, and innumerable hands of cards later, Mr. Carson came in. “That’s it,” he said. “The baby is born. It’s a girl.”

Most of the women said things like, “Ooh,” and “How lovely.”

“Now you can all go to bed,” Carson added. 

“Good news,” Thomas said to Jimmy. He hadn’t really been worried, of course. But still. It was good news. Lady Sybil would enjoy having a daughter. 

“Do you like Lady Sybil?”

“I do,” Thomas answered. “We worked together in the hospital during the war, so I know her better than any of them, really. She’s a lovely person.” He patted Jimmy’s arm and added, almost shocked at his own daring, “Like you.”

Jimmy glanced down at his hand. Right; friendly patting on the arm usually didn’t go on quite this long, did it? He smiled, dropped his hand, and headed off to bed. 

They’d all be exhausted tomorrow, Thomas knew—the day would still start at 6 AM, no matter how late the night had been—but it had been, all in all, an enjoyable evening, with a happy ending. 

Despite the late hour—and perhaps because of all the tea and cigarettes—Thomas had trouble getting to sleep. It seemed like he’d barely slept at all when someone knocked at his door. Instead of the usual wake up call—“Six o’clock!”—one of the hall-boys said, “Mr. Barrow? Mr. Carson wants everyone in the servants’ hall.”

He glanced at the window. It wasn’t morning; he really _hadn’t_ slept. 

Something was wrong. 

He grabbed his dressing gown and went into the corridor to find out what was going on. The others were starting down the stairs, similarly dressed, so he joined them. Mr. Carson, he noticed, was in his pyjamas and dressing gown as well. He didn’t think there was anything short of a house fire that could cause Mr. Carson to appear before the women staff in a dressing gown—and if it were that, they’d hardly be going to the servants’ hall. 

A declaration of war, maybe, but that wasn’t too likely. 

The baby, he thought. Something had happened to the baby. 

It had to be the baby. 

When they were all assembled downstairs, Carson said, “There has been.” He paused and swallowed hard. “A tragedy.”

 _Please, God, let it be the baby_ , Thomas thought, before he could stop himself. 

“Lady Sybil has died.” Thomas barely heard what Carson said next over the sound of his own shuddering breaths. “From complications of the birth.”

It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t. This was…a nightmare, or…something. Lady Sybil wasn’t supposed to be dead. She was supposed to be embarking on her next big adventure. Motherhood. With her baby daughter. 

Thomas almost— _almost_ —didn’t care that he was about to start crying, where everyone could see. 

“Is there anything we should do, Mr. Carson?” Daisy asked. 

What could they do? Nothing. 

“Carry on, Daisy,” Carson said. 

Someone—Anna, Thomas thought—sniffled loudly. 

“As we all must.” Carson stood there for a moment longer, as if about to say something else, then turned and left. Headed for the safety of his pantry, Thomas thought, where he could fall apart in private.

All right for him. Thomas didn’t think he could keep his composure the whole way back to his room. Outside, maybe, if he’d brought his cigarettes, but he hadn’t. He started for the stairs but barely made it out of the servants’ hall before he started crying, in great undignified sobs. 

“Thomas?” someone said behind him. 

He glanced over his shoulder. Anna. Could be worse. Swallowing hard, he took a few deep breaths, trying to pull himself together. “I don’t know why I’m crying, really,” he said, before she could say it. “She wouldn’t have noticed if I’d died.” He tried to laugh at the irony of it, and failed miserably.

“You don’t mean that,” Anna said gently. 

He shook his head. She would have. She might even have cried. “No. No, I don’t.” And he shouldn’t have said she wouldn’t; it was an insult to her…to her memory. And she wouldn’t have made fun of him for crying over her, either. He knew, because when she’d found him crying over Edward Courtenay, she hadn’t. “I can tell you, in my life, not many have been kind to me.” He didn’t like admitting it, but he thought Lady Sybil would have wanted him to. “She was one of the few.”

Anna patted his arm, leaning on him a little. Thomas wondered if she thought he’d said that as a ploy for sympathy. Maybe she did. Maybe he had. Maybe she just wanted someone to lean on. 

When Mrs. Hughes came into the corridor, Anna straightened up, as if trying through her body language to make clear that nothing inappropriate was happening. Thomas couldn’t imagine that anyone would care, in the circumstances. But then, Anna was a married woman.

“Don’t mind me,” Mrs. Hughes said. “The sweetest spirit under this roof is gone. And I’m weeping myself.”

She continued in the direction of Carson’s pantry. Thomas took the opportunity to start back for his room while he could be sure of not encountering anyone else on his way. They’d all be talking about how young Lady Sybil was, what a shame it was, and who would have thought something like that could happen in these modern days? He didn’t want to hear any of it.

On his way up, he heard the cry of a baby—Lady Sybil’s baby. The motherless baby. He had a moment’s mad impulse to go find her, hold her—he wouldn’t mind if she saw him cry. She was Lady Sybil’s daughter; she’d understand. But of course she had her father and her aunties and her grandmother with her, as well as the nurse and God knew who else. She didn’t need her grandfather’s valet turning up, and even if she did, it wasn’t his place. 

He thought he’d cry some more, once he got to his room, but he seemed to have spent all his tears in that first paroxysm of grief. He sat on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands and his elbows on his knees, thinking. Remembering. He’d known her best during the war, but even before that, she’d been his favorite of the Crawley sisters. Somehow, despite have been surrounded by servants since she was born, she’d never quite picked up the knack of looking past you as though you were part of the furniture. 

The first time he’d met her, really met her, he’d been in the house a couple of weeks. He’d escaped from the house for part of the afternoon, roiling with some sort of childish outrage—the other footman picking on him, or Carson being unfair; he didn’t remember what it had been. He’d wandered out by the stables and paused to lean on a paddock fence—not really caring about the horses, but thinking perhaps one of the stable-boys might like to be friends. 

Instead, Lady Sybil had turned up, all of ten years old. “That’s my new pony,” she’d said. “I’m going to call him Snowflake.”

He’d looked at the pony—it was a muddy shade of brown. “It’s not white,” he pointed out, barely remembering to add, “my lady.”

She had shrugged. “So?” Reaching into the pocket of her pinafore, she’d brought out a handful of sugar lumps and started waving them in the pony’s direction. It ambled over and started taking the sugar from her hand with enormous yellow teeth. 

“Won’t it bite you, my lady?” he’d asked, terrified that his lordship’s daughter was going to get her hand bitten off, and no one would believe it wasn’t his fault. 

“Not if you keep your hand flat,” she’d said. “Here, do you want to give him one?” She pressed a slightly sticky lump of sugar into his hand. “Like this,” she said, demonstrating. 

Thomas had not particularly wanted to, but he wanted even less to seem a coward in front of a twelve-year-old girl, lady or not, so he’d done it. The pony’s mouth had tickled. 

Morning came all too soon. Everyone was quiet and solemn at breakfast, Carson and Mrs. Hughes discussing in hushed tones how they would have to telephone the undertaker as soon as a decent hour was reached, and what the family might need, in the circumstances. 

Ivy came in. “Mr. Barrow, do you need another tray for Sir Phillip?”

“I wasn’t told otherwise,” he said. “I suppose I’d better take it up and see if he wants it.” 

“When you do,” Mr. Carson said, “you may tell him that the car will be ready to take him to meet the 8 o’clock train.” In response to Thomas’s inquiring look, he added, “I think it best if he has left the house by the time the family rises.”

“He said Lady Sybil was _fine_ ,” Anna said. “He was absolutely _certain_ she didn’t need the operation Dr. Clarkson recommended. If he’d never come, she might still be—” Anna broke off and held her napkin to her face. 

If the situation had been any less serious, there might have been some small comfort in the fact that Sir Phillip was no happier than anyone else to be woken after only a few hours’ sleep. Thomas had to repeat the information about the car taking him to the station three times before Sir Phillip realized that he was not going to be given the option of taking a later train. 

Once he was packed off, Thomas decided he might as well go lay out his lordship’s clothes for the day. It was unlikely he’d get up at the usual time, but he might, and whenever he did get up, he’d need to get dressed. He had his hand on the doorknob to the dressing room when O’Brien, emerging from the bedroom with an untouched breakfast tray, said, “Did you know his lordship’s sleeping in there?”

“No,” Thomas said. She would know whether he was in her ladyship’s bedroom or not, but could he trust her? “I didn’t.”

She stepped closer to him. “I’d hardly be trying to get you in trouble with Lady Sybil lying dead just down the hall, would I?”

“I hope not,” Thomas muttered, although honestly, he wouldn’t put it past her. Now what should he do? He didn’t usually wake Lord Grantham—since he slept in her ladyship’s room, he got woken up when O’Brien went in with her tray. But Thomas did wake him if he slept in his dressing room—if he slept there, it was generally because he needed to be up early for some reason. 

One thing was certain—he wouldn’t take any advice O’Brien had to offer. Going back downstairs, he considered the matter, but got no further. 

Mrs. Hughes was just coming out of Carson’s pantry when he got to the bottom of the stairs. “How are you holding up, Mr. Barrow?” she asked him. 

“Well enough,” he said. 

“It’s going to be a long day, I’m afraid.”

“Yes,” he agreed. After thinking it over for a moment, he ventured, “I don’t suppose his lordship left instructions with anyone about when he wanted to be woken.”

“I don’t think so,” she said. 

Mrs. Hughes might not have any more idea than he did, but she wouldn’t intentionally give him bad advice. Thomas explained the dilemma, finishing, “I’m not sure what’s best to do.”

She shook her head. “Goodness knows, in his place I’d want to sleep for a hundred years.”

Thomas nodded. He would, too.

“But the men from Grosby’s are coming at half-past ten. He might…well.”

Want to say goodbye before they took his daughter’s body away? Want to talk to them? He probably didn’t want to do either, but he might regret it if he didn’t. “Yes,” Thomas said. 

Finally she said, “I’d wait a half an hour, and if he hasn’t stirred, take him a cup of tea and see what he says.”

It was as good a plan as any, Thomas supposed. “All right. That’s what I’ll do. Thank you.”

He hoped that his lordship would, as Mrs. Hughes put it, stir, but a half-hour later, he hadn’t. Thomas went upstairs with a tea tray and a sense of trepidation. 

Lord Grantham didn’t wake when he opened the door, or when he set the tea tray down on the bedside table. Not when he opened the curtains, either. “My lord?” he said. It came out as barely a whisper. Thomas cleared his throat and tried again. “My lord?” 

The lump on the bed shifted slightly.

“I brought you a cup of tea, my lord,” Thomas continued. 

“I don’t want it,” his lordship said. 

“Yes, my lord,” he said. Should he just leave, then? “Do you want to dress?”

“No.”

“A breakfast tray?”

“No. I’ll ring if I want anything.”

“Yes, my lord.” Now Thomas collected the untouched tray and left.

Mrs. Hughes met him at the bottom of the stairs. 

Thomas shook his head. “He wants to be left alone.”

The men from Grosby’s came and they went. Thomas thought that the moment ought to be marked in some way—perhaps with all of them lining up in front of the house, as they did for guests’ arrival—but it wasn’t. Mrs. Hughes distributed black mourning bands. Anna and O’Brien sorted out mourning clothes for the ladies, and the footmen were run off their feet answering the door and accepting cards from condolence callers. 

Thomas would have liked to be busy, too—it might not help, but it certainly couldn’t hurt. But there was nothing he could do. He sat in the servants’ hall, waiting for his lordship’s bell to ring.

It didn’t until mid-afternoon. When Thomas arrived, his lordship was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at the floor. “I’ll dress now.”

“Yes, my lord.” 

Normally, Thomas would have had the things laid out before Lord Grantham came, but in the circumstances, he didn’t. His lordship didn’t seem to mind the delays, though. He moved slowly, like a man walking underwater. 

Once Thomas had him dressed in a dark suit, he asked, “Do you want something to eat, my lord? It’s a bit past luncheon and a bit early for tea, but I’m sure the kitchen can manage something.”

A long silence stretched. “I’ll be in my study,” his lordship finally said. 

Thomas wasn’t sure whether that meant he did or he didn’t, but he decided to ask Mrs. Patmore to make something up anyway. 

Mrs. Hughes saw him taking the tray of tea and sandwiches up the stairs. “His lordship’s finally eating something, then?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Thomas admitted. “I asked him if he wanted anything, and he didn’t say he didn’t. Maybe he’ll eat it if it’s there.”

Lord Grantham didn’t respond when Thomas took in the tray. He left it anyway, closing the door softly behind him.


	6. Significant Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas talks with Sybil, his lordship, and Jimmy.

Thomas was surprised by how quickly everyone seemed to return to normal after Lady Sybil’s death. The days before the funeral were busy, of course. People would be coming to call after the service, so the public rooms had to be ready to receive them, and they would have to be offered some light refreshments. And there was work to do with the baby—trays taken up to the wet nurse, and a great deal of soiled linen coming down. All that on top of the usual business of meals and dressing and making beds. The house just…ticked along, for all the world as if a vital piece weren’t missing. 

One afternoon, when the wet nurse came down for a cup of tea and a natter in Mrs. Hughes’s parlour, Thomas made his way up to the nursery. She’d be there for at least a half-hour, he knew, and Alice, the mousiest of the housemaids, had been sent up to keep an eye on the sleeping baby in her absence. Thomas could talk his way past her, he knew—or at least intimidate her into not saying anything if she did realize he had no business whatsoever being there.

But when he eased the door open—waking the baby would definitely attract attention, and he didn’t want that—he saw not mousy Alice, but Branson, holding the baby. 

Mr. Branson, to him, that is. Before Thomas could retreat, Mr. Branson looked toward the door. “Who’s there?” he said softly.

There was a chance he could slip away unnoticed—but if Branson decided to investigate, being caught sneaking away would be even harder to explain than being here in the first place would be. He opened the door a little more and said, just as softly, “Barrow, sir.”

“What is it?” Branson asked.

He seemed to think Thomas had some official reason for being there. That was the natural assumption, Thomas supposed. Maybe he still had a chance to escape. “I’m sorry; I didn’t realize you were here. I’ll just--”

“Wait,” Branson said. “You came to see the baby?”

Realizing there was no plausible lie that he could tell, Thomas said, “I did.” He never would have if he’d realized Branson would be here; they’d never gotten on, back when he’d been a chauffeur. 

To his surprise, Branson said, “Come look at her, then.”

Thomas went in. The baby looked…pretty much like every other baby Thomas had ever seen, which wasn’t many. “She’s lovely,” he said, because that was what you were supposed to say. 

“Just like her mother,” Branson said. “Do you want to hold her?”

“Er. All right.” He wasn’t sure that he did. But if it had been Lady Sybil asking, he would have said yes. 

Some of his alarm must have shown on his face, because Branson said, “It’s all right. Just support her head, and don’t drop her.” He eased the baby into Thomas’s arms. 

She looked up at him with surprisingly solemn blue eyes. “Hello,” he said to her. “I knew your mum. She— ” He shook his head. He couldn’t finish, not without crying, and he’d be damned before he did that in front of Branson. 

“Sybil liked you,” Branson said suddenly. “I have no idea why, mind. But she did.”

Tears pricked his eyes. “I liked her, too.” He shook his head. “I should go. Before I’m missed.”

Branson took the baby back. “If you were missed, tell Mr. Carson I think Sybil would have been glad you came.”

Thomas nodded as he left. Maybe in acknowledgement, maybe in thanks—he didn’t want to think about it too much. 

Knowing that the excuse Branson suggested wouldn’t help much, if he had been missed, Thomas stopped by the dressing room to look for some bit of work that would provide a silent explanation for why he’d been in this part of the house at this hour. Lord Grantham was still sleeping in there—though, fortunately, he had gotten up for breakfast every day since that first morning. 

The whiskey decanter was nearly empty—that would make the second time this week he’d filled it, when normally it went untouched for weeks at a time. Thomas briefly considered leaving it until his lordship asked for more. But no, it was hardly his place to have an opinion on whether his lordship was drinking too much, was it? 

Carson raised an eyebrow when he came into the butler’s pantry with it. Thomas shook his head slightly, sure that there wasn’t any comment he could make that wouldn’t get himself into trouble. 

Wordlessly, Carson took the decanter from him and filled it—halfway. Thomas nodded when he handed it back to him. That was a good idea. Not quite as direct as leaving it empty, but his lordship might run through it a little more slowly that way. 

The funeral was the next day. A lovely service, they’d probably be saying once it was over. Compared to dragging a body out of no-man’s land and dumping it in a shell hole, he supposed it was lovely. Anything would be. But that was about all you could say for it, as far as Thomas was concerned. It was still shoving a body into the ground. A body that had once been a person, who had no business being dead. 

They sat down to tea in the servants’ hall after the last of the condolence callers had left. Thomas looked at the food without interest. _The funeral baked meats cold_. Which one was that? One of the tragedies. _Hamlet_ , it must be—the next line was, _did furnish forth the marriage table_. 

Not really appropriate in the case, then. Although perhaps they could furnish forth the christening table. 

“Cheer up, Mr. Barrow,” said Alfred. “A long face won’t solve anything.”

Cheering up wouldn’t help anything either, would it? Thomas didn’t answer.

“Leave him alone,” Anna said. “He knew Lady Sybil better than any of us.”

In other circumstances, Anna would have been the last one he wanted sticking up for him. But he just said, “Except for you. We were the two who really knew her.”

Anna glanced over at him, as if a little puzzled. 

“I’d say your grief speaks well for her,” Jimmy ventured. He was sitting next to Thomas, even though Thomas hadn’t bothered making sure that happened. 

“Thank you,” he said, giving Jimmy’s hand a squeeze. “Thank you for saying that.”

Jimmy glanced over at him and nodded. Thomas released his hand, mindful that the others were watching. 

“You can talk about her,” Anna ventured. “If you like. It helps, sometimes.”

Thomas didn’t see how. “I wouldn’t know what to say. She was just….” He shook his head. “She wanted to be taken seriously. At the hospital.” She might have been the only one who understood how hard it was to be Acting Sergeant Barrow and not the footman Thomas, in the shadow of Downton Abbey. 

“Oh,” Anna said. “That’s why….”

He looked over at her sharply. “Why what?”

“Why you always called her Nurse Crawley,” she said. “When we had the wounded officers here.”

“Yes,” he said. “That’s why.” He took out his cigarettes. “Excuse me.”

He went outside and leaned against the wall, closing his eyes to hold back tears. He had a little more privacy here than he did at the table with everyone looking at him, but not enough for that. 

And not any, really, because O’Brien came out. “Do you have one of those to spare?”

“Not for you,” Thomas answered. But he held out the pack anyway. You did that, in the trenches, even if it was your worst enemy asking. At least if there was a bombardment going on. 

She took it, and lit it with a kitchen match. “I’ve been cutting back.”

“Have you.” 

O’Brien abandoned that thread of conversation. “Her ladyship isn’t sleeping well.”

“I’m sure she isn’t.” 

“She blames his lordship for…for what happened.”

“I’d heard.” He wasn’t sure precisely where he’d heard it—his lordship certainly hadn’t discussed the matter with him. But there was a coldness between them that there hadn’t been, before, and it wasn’t hard to guess the reason. “He isn’t taking it well, either.” He’d have helped if he could—even if it meant cooperating with O’Brien—but he didn’t know what they could do.

“I wouldn’t mind if she blamed him until the cows came home, if it were helping her in her grief. But it isn’t.”

She threw the cigarette down—why she’d taken it off him if she didn’t want the whole thing, Thomas didn’t know—and went back inside. 

That evening, the family dined early and went up early. Tired from the long day, or maybe just eager for it to be over, Thomas wasn’t sure. His lordship came into the dressing room and stood facing the door for a long moment after he’d closed it. 

“My lord?” Thomas said. 

He turned and started undoing his white tie. “I’ll be sleeping in here again tonight.”

“Yes, my lord. Shall I wake you at the usual time?” He gently took the tie that was hanging, forgotten, in his lordship’s hand. 

He nodded and sat down to take his shoes off. “Barrow,” he said suddenly.

“Yes, my lord?”

“Lady Sybil said once that you were…war chums.”

“Yes, my lord,” he agreed. She’d said that? Thomas wondered when. 

Lord Grantham shook his head. “I never…took an interest, in her nursing. When I could have.”

Thomas supposed that was true—or rather, he’d taken an interest in disapproving of it. There wasn’t any appropriate response he could make to that, so he just made a noncommittal noise. 

“Did she…I don’t even know what to ask. Did she enjoy it? Was she good at it?”

Oh. “Enjoy probably isn’t the right word, my lord. But she…liked that she was doing something important.” This was worse than Anna asking. He could hardly run out of here when he’d had enough. “And yes, she was good at it.” His lordship seemed to be waiting for him to say more, so he added, “She didn’t flinch when things got ugly.” As they so often had. “That’s what I admired most about her, my lord.”

“I didn’t think it was appropriate work for her,” Lord Grantham said, more to himself than anything, Thomas thought. “Now—well. I wouldn’t mind if she wanted to take up street sweeping if she were--” He broke off, bringing a loosely curled fist to his mouth.

Regrets. Things left unsaid. Thomas knew that one. “My lord?” He oughtn’t to say what he was thinking—entirely too familiar, it was. “If you don’t mind my saying. She knew you didn’t approve of her working. But she never thought you’d stop loving her, no matter how many things she did you didn’t approve of.” He knew, because she’d asked him, around the last Christmas of the war, about his own family, and she hadn’t been able to understand why he hadn’t spoken to any of them in years. _They don’t approve of something I’d done_ , he had explained, careful to give not the slightest hint of what that “something” was. She’d looked at him with complete incomprehension; such a thing didn’t exist in her world. 

“No,” his lordship said. “I don’t mind you saying.”

Once he was in his pyjamas and dressing gown, Lord Grantham went to the decanter and poured himself a healthy measure. After a moment’s hesitation, he poured a second, slightly smaller one, and offered it to Thomas. 

He took it warily. It was entirely possible that his lordship was in the habit of sharing a drink with Bates from time to time, but certainly not with him. He raised it slightly and said, “To Lady Sybil,” not sure if that was appropriate or not—but certainly more appropriate than “Cheers.” 

“Sybil,” his lordship echoed. After drinking, he said, “Incidentally, is it you or Carson who thinks I’ve been drinking too much?”

Oh…dear. Thomas was frozen for a second, trying to think what Mr. Carson would say. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, my lord.” Yes, that was it. 

His lordship shook his head slightly. “I appreciate your concern.” 

Thomas expected him to follow that up with some polite version of, _but it’s none of your bloody business_. He didn’t, and Thomas wasn’t certain if it was implied or not. He blurted out, “Her ladyship isn’t sleeping well, either. Miss O’Brien said.”

His lordship didn’t tell him off for his cheek, either. “She blames me,” he said. “For Syb—for Lady Sybil’s…for what happened.”

He didn’t know what he was supposed to say to that, either. But saying what was actually on his mind was working out well enough so far. “Because you got Sir Phillip to come, my lord?”

“No. Because…because when Dr. Clarkson said she needed emergency surgery, and Tapsell said she didn’t, I believed him. I thought that the highly-regarded London specialist likely knew his job better than the country doctor.”

It seemed a reasonable enough assumption to Thomas. He wondered what Lady Sybil had thought—but then, Anna had said she was “confused.” Maybe she’d been in no state to be included in the decision. “I see, my lord.”

“He was the expert,” Lord Grantham went on. “And he said he was _sure_.”

That ought to have been his first clue—in Thomas’s experience, doctors never said they were sure about anything. But it certainly wouldn’t be helpful to say that. Instead he said, “Dr. Clarkson has made his share of mistakes, my lord. You couldn’t have known.”

“Her ladyship did,” his lordship answered. “I’m sorry, Barrow. I shouldn’t…bore you with all this. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, my lord.” He slipped out, not realizing until he was out in the passage that he had the whiskey tumbler in his hand, still. Well, he couldn’t exactly take it back in, no more than he could be seen with it. He downed the rest in one swallow before going downstairs.

Even though Alfred had been the one to suggest it, Thomas did make an effort to take an interest in the usual things over the next few days—helping Jimmy improve in his career, and making sure Alfred didn’t get above himself. It was difficult to muster up the energy to care, but he did feel quite a bit better when, in the same conversation, Jimmy spoke up for those who “chose to be different,” and Thomas managed to make Alfred look a complete fool. 

He also got round to answering some letters he’d been neglecting. When he walked down to the village to post them and replenish his supply of cigarettes, he ran into Dr. Clarkson, who, to his surprise, asked Thomas to walk with him for a minute.

“Certainly, Doctor,” he said warily.

The reason soon became clear. “I’d wondered how Lord and Lady Grantham are bearing up under the strain,” he said.

“It’s been very difficult for them, of course, sir,” he said. 

“I’m sure it has.” He hesitated. “I’d wondered if…if the disagreement over the course of treatment has added to their troubles.”

Clearly someone had told him that it had, so Thomas didn’t feel he was giving away secrets to say, “His lordship blames himself, sir. He’s taking it hard.”

“I see. Thank you, Barrow. You’ve been very helpful.”

Thomas couldn’t see how, but answered that he was glad to be of help, and turned toward the house.

He’d barely got settled in the servants’ hall when he heard Jimmy going into the kitchen and saying something about Carson having a bee in his bonnet. Interested both in what Carson might be upset about, and that it was Jimmy saying it, Thomas made his way casually over to the kitchen. 

Unfortunately, the subject had changed by the time he arrived. Jimmy was saying, in response to a question about his upcoming half-day, “What I usually do. Go somewhere on me own.” He left the kitchen, brushing past Thomas without acknowledging him. 

Blast Ivy for prying into things that weren’t any of her concern—Thomas had been wondering himself what Jimmy was planning, but he couldn’t ask now without making him feel hounded on all sides. 

“You never give up, do you?” Mrs. Patmore asked Ivy. “He’s not interested.” 

“He must be interested in someone,” Ivy answered back. “He’s young, isn’t he?”

That was a cheering thought—Jimmy clearly wasn’t interested in Ivy, even though she was all but throwing herself at him. Why might that be? She wasn’t particularly bad looking, as far as Thomas could tell, given that the subject was a little abstract for him. “But that someone isn’t you,” he noted, watching Ivy’s face fall before making his exit. He’d lingered long enough that he could go back to the servants’ hall without it looking like he was following Jimmy there. 

“Ivy’s been making a bit of a pest of herself, has she?” he asked, slipping into the seat next to Jimmy. 

“She doesn’t exactly take a hint,” Jimmy agreed. 

“Daisy was the same way when I was a footman.”

“I thought she was married to that other fellow, the one killed in the war?”

“She was,” he agreed. “But she fancied me first.” He snagged his teacup from the other side of the table and took a sip—and regretted it; it had gone cold. “Who do you fancy, then, if not Ivy?”

Jimmy glanced over at him. “No one. No one here, I mean.”

Interesting. That was what Thomas had thought—if he did fancy one of the maids, he certainly wasn’t making it obvious. But Ivy had a point—he was young. There ought to be someone. 

Maybe someone he couldn’t talk about. No, Thomas didn’t dare hope for that. “Oh, is _that_ the real reason you didn’t want to go to France with Lady Anstruther?”

“Like I said, I didn’t think I’d fancy the food. Excuse me, Mr. Barrow.” He got up and left.

That was a bit of a blunder, then. But Thomas had never met a man who didn’t want to talk about his best girl—unless he was the sort who didn’t like girls best. Still, he’d better avoid the subject for at least a few days. Thomas would have been nervous about anyone prying into his private life, and if Jimmy had the same reason for avoiding the subject, raising it again too soon might scare him off. 

His lordship seemed angry, rather than depressed, when Thomas went up to dress him for dinner. He decided against making any effort to find out why—in the temper he was in, any effort to pry would not have been welcomed. But he found out soon enough, anyway, when they sat down before supper.

The meal had been brought in, but Carson was off doing something, so they had to sit there and look at it instead of starting to eat. Ordinarily, Thomas would have been irked, but this time, Anna raised a subject that Carson certainly would not have considered suitable at table. “Is it Mrs. Crawley’s new housekeeper that has Mr. Carson so upset?” she asked Mrs. Hughes. 

She nodded. “He’d heard about it earlier, but the ladies going down there to lunch today….”

“Who’s her new housekeeper?” Thomas asked. 

Mrs. Hughes glanced quickly to either side. “Ethel. The one who was housemaid here during the war.”

“Oh,” Thomas said. He vaguely remembered her—the one who’d been caught canoodling with one of the officers. Was Carson still holding a grudge about that?

“What makes it worse is that she…fell into bad ways, after leaving here. To support herself and the poor child.”

Oh. Well, that certainly explained Carson’s reaction. And his lordship’s, if he’d found out. “That’s…very generous, of Mrs. Crawley. To give her another chance.” God knew, what she’d done wasn’t any worse than he had—possibly better, in the eyes of the law. He was just careful enough not to have been caught. 

“I thought the same,” Mrs. Hughes said. “Mr. Carson feels that she has exposed the family to scandal.”

“She was a bit annoying when she was here,” Anna added. “But I wouldn’t wish that sort of life on anyone.”

Thomas glanced down at Jimmy, to see how he was reacting to this news. But before he could respond—if he was going to—Mr. Carson came in, followed by Molesley, and the subject had to be dropped. 

He had a feeling it would be picked up again when Carson left the room after supper, but Jimmy announced his intention to have a go at the piano, and Thomas was more interested in that. 

“I didn’t know you played,” he said, standing by the piano as Jimmy leafed through the limited selection of music, frowning slightly. 

“I do,” Jimmy said. “I love music—Lady Anstruther used to let me play on her baby grand, but I don’t see Mr. Carson agreeing to that.” 

“Maybe for the servants’ ball,” Thomas said. 

“Then I wouldn’t be able to dance,” Jimmy answered. “I like that, too.” With a shake of his head, he put the music away—apparently he didn’t like any of it—and played a scale. “Still, this one’s almost in tune.”

“Is it? I don’t think anyone’s played it since the war.” Thomas wondered if he could talk Carson into having it tuned—Jimmy would like that, wouldn’t he? 

Jimmy started playing something in rag time, by ear. Thomas listened and tried to think of something knowledgeable to say when he stopped. It was a shame he didn’t know more about music. He’d never taken an interest in it before; clearly, that had been a mistake. 

Something about dancing, maybe. He did know about that. Maybe he could suggest that when the household was next in London, they try to get an evening off together? He could take him to the same place he’d gone with Mailer—they could stay upstairs, if that was what Jimmy wanted. 

He’d just about decided to try that when Mrs. Hughes called across the room, “You play well, James.”

“There’s no end to Jimmy’s talents,” he said, circling behind Jimmy and putting his hand on his shoulder. _He’d_ been the first one to notice. “Is there?” he asked more softly, just for Jimmy’s ears.

Before Jimmy could answer, and long before Thomas could suggest they go out dancing, O’Brien came into the room, and immediately came over to them. “His lordship wants you.”

Skeptical, Thomas examined her face for any signs of deceit. He couldn’t tell—but then, he never could. And he couldn’t argue—she might be telling the truth. Reluctantly, he let his hand slip off Jimmy’s shoulder, allowing his fingers to lightly brush his neck, just above the collar. It would seem like an accident, if Jimmy wasn’t looking for a sign. 

At least, he hoped so. 

As it turned out, his lordship was waiting for him in the dressing room—he wanted to talk about his summer wardrobe before changing for bed. “I’d prefer to avoid the lighter colours this season,” he explained. “We may need to write Murchinson’s about having some summer-weight suits made in black and grey, if I don’t have enough.”

“Yes, my lord,” he said. “I’ll make an inventory of what you already have.” 

“Good. Tomorrow, if you can. Murchinson doesn’t like to be rushed.” 

“Of course, my lord.”

By the time Thomas made it back down to the servants’ hall, Jimmy had stopped playing and was engrossed in a game of draughts with Molesley. Seeing that Jimmy was ahead, Thomas asked if he could play the winner, but was told that Alfred was already going to. 

“You can play the winner of that one, if you like,” Molesley suggested.

Since he had no desire whatsoever to play draughts with Alfred, Thomas said, “It’ll probably be time for bed by then.” If Jimmy won both games, he could always decide it wasn’t quite as late as all that. It turned out to be just as well; Jimmy’s luck turned shortly after Thomas rejoined the group. 

The next day, after spending most of the morning in the cedar cupboards in the attic, examining his lordship’s summer clothes, Thomas came down to find Jimmy quietly fuming in the downstairs corridor. “I’ve been demoted, I think,” he said. “Apparently _Alfred_ looks more like a first footman than I do. It isn’t fair.”

Thomas glanced at the servants’ hall, where most of the others were gathered for tea. Whatever had happened, it would be better to discuss it away from prying ears. “I’m nipping out for a smoke,” he said. “Come with me, if you’d like to tell me about it.”

Jimmy went with him. “Right, so Alfred got Daisy to show him how to do the foxtrot. Only he was terrible at it.”

Of course he would be. Thomas nodded encouragingly.

“So I offered to show him how it was done.”

“You were dancing with Alfred?” Thomas wasn’t sure how to feel about that. 

“ _No_. With Daisy. Demonstrating.” 

That made much more sense. “All right.”

“And that’s when Mr. Carson came in. He thought it was disrespectful. In the circumstances. I can see why, but Alfred started it, and he just stood there and let me and Daisy take all the blame.”

That sounded like something he would have done—clearly, young Alfred had picked up a thing or two from his auntie. “Did he _say_ Alfred was being made first footman?” 

“Not in so many words. He said Alfred looked more like a first footman, and I should ‘take a leaf from his book and learn to conduct myself with discretion,’” Jimmy said bitterly.

“Well, that’s bloody unfair,” Thomas said. “Not that I’m surprised. Mr. Carson always has a favorite. Why he’s taken to Alfred, I have no idea.”

“I suppose you were his favorite, when you were a footman?”

“God, no. He liked William best.” Everyone did. 

“How’d you get to be first footman, then?” 

“He didn’t have much choice—the old one left, and the new man didn’t have any experience. Son of one of the tenant farmers, you know. I’d been here a couple of years by then, so there wasn’t really any way Carson could put him up ahead of me. I’m sure he’d have liked to.”

“So that’s all you can recommend? Wait him out?”

“No,” Thomas said. “I’ll have to think about it.” O’Brien, he knew, would have had a plan right off the bat. “Alfred has no business being first footman; what you need is some way to make that plain to Mr. Carson.” It shouldn’t be too difficult, given how ignorant and oafish Alfred was, but Thomas couldn’t think of anything. “We better go in,” he added, dropping his cigarette end and stamping it out. He put his hand on Jimmy’s shoulder, adding, “They won’t wait tea for the likes of us. Chin up, we’ll think of something.”

Jimmy turned a heartbreaking grin on him. “Thank you, Mr. Barrow. I can’t tell you what a relief it is to have you in my corner.”

Thomas’s stomach flipped over; he could hardly keep his voice level as he said, “I’m glad to hear it.”

Jimmy liked him. That couldn’t possibly mean anything else.

Could it?


	7. A Nocturnal Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rival returns; mistakes are made.

Thomas could not believe what he was hearing. 

“But that’s wonderful,” Mrs. Hughes said. “How did it happen?”

“It’s been in the works for some time,” Anna answered. “I didn’t want to make an announcement until we knew for certain it would all work out. I found out some weeks ago that one of Mrs. Bates’s neighbors saw her cooking the poisoned pie when he was already on the train back here. Then Mr. Murray had to get a formal statement, and petition the judge to reopen the case.”

“Does his lordship know?” O’Brien asked.

Thomas was interested in that question, too. 

“Oh, yes,” she answered. “I told him right away, as soon as Mr. Murray had the statement and started the process.”

So Anna’s certainty that Bates would be re-joining the household was likely well-founded. Not only that, but his lordship had known for God knew how long, and hadn’t thought it appropriate to tell him. 

For a moment, he tried to convince himself that that might be good news. Perhaps his lordship didn’t fancy being valeted by a jailbird—but that seemed wildly unlikely, given how he’d always favored Bates, and how he’d, presumably, footed the bill for Bates’s defense. 

“I’m sure you’re looking forward to seeing him again,” said Ivy, who as usual was taking her time bringing the vegetables around, so she could hear the talk in the servants’ hall. “I mean, not that you haven’t seen him. But you know. Seeing him in private.”

“I am,” Anna said, blushing. 

“Ivy!” said Carson. 

It _was_ just barely possible that he had something else in mind for Bates, though—particularly since Bates and Anna _would_ want to start some kind of a married life now. They’d have to live out—unless his lordship decided to have a guest bedroom made over into married servants’ quarters, which, given the pattern of obvious favoritism, was not out of the question, but was still unlikely. 

It wouldn’t be at all convenient to have a valet who lived out. Finding something else for Bates to do was clearly the most sensible option for everyone. Thomas decided he’d behave as though it was certain to come out that way—as though there was no other explanation for why he hadn’t been told before the rest, so he had time to make other arrangements. 

When he went upstairs to dress his lordship for dinner, Thomas steeled himself for some discussion of the subject. If whatever his lordship said to broach the subject gave him any wiggle room at all, he’d respond as if he was certain he’d be staying in his current position. If told flatly that his services were no longer required, he would be _shocked_. Possibly even a little bit appalled. And betrayed. Respectfully appalled and betrayed, because his lordship was far too good an employer to dismiss him with no warning for no other reason than that his old valet had gotten out of prison. That was the ticket.

After all his planning, though, Lord Grantham didn’t say a word about it. Thomas was tempted to bring it up himself, if only to end the suspense—but surely he wouldn’t, if it hadn’t even occurred to him that he might be dismissed. He’d only bring it up if he were worried, and he wasn’t. He kept silent. 

The next day, he was even more certain that his lordship would say something. Bates was due to be released the very next morning. Surely it had occurred to _someone_ —someone other than him—that, next to Anna and Bates themselves, he was the one most greatly affected by this news? 

Evidently not. He even lingered after putting his lordship into his dressing gown, giving him ample opportunity to raise the subject. But Lord Grantham just said, “Good night, Barrow,” in a pointed way. 

“Good night, my lord,” he said, and went back downstairs. 

After picking up a cup of tea from the kitchen, he went into the servants’ hall and found Jimmy at the table, flicking idly through a newspaper. “Anything interesting?” he asked, taking the seat next to him.

Jimmy glanced over at him and smiled. “Nothing in particular, Mr. Barrow. Did you want to read it?”

He shook his head. “Nah.”

“What’s this Mr. Bates like, then?” Jimmy asked. 

If they were alone, Thomas could have given him an earful, but two of the maids were at the other end of the table, one apparently helping the other with some knitting, and Mrs. Hughes was having a cup of tea. “Nice enough,” he said instead. “Well-liked.” That was the understatement of the century. “Everyone was terribly shocked when he was arrested.”

“With good reason, I suppose,” Jimmy noted. “Since he didn’t do it.”

“Right.” Thomas supposed he really hadn’t. It seemed unlikely that Anna would have succeeded in getting him released if there was much room for doubt. 

“Will he be going back in as his lordship’s valet?” Jimmy asked.

That was the question, wasn’t it? Thomas shook his head. “No one’s said.”

“What’ll you do, then?”

He clearly hadn’t quite carried off his air of assuming he had nothing to worry about. “I’d think if I was going to be out of a job, his lordship would have let me know by now.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Jimmy said. “But…do you think they’ll make you first footman again?”

That was exactly what he was afraid would happen. He might have to take it. He’d written a few letters when he’d heard the news, asking if anyone knew of a promising position, but the response had not been encouraging. So many estates were reducing the size of their staff. Finding another place would be a hard slog, and his savings still hadn’t recovered from the black market disaster. He shook his head. “Perhaps his lordship has something else in mind for Mr. Bates. I expect I’d’ve been told if his plans affected me.”

“I hope so,” Jimmy said. 

Thomas made an effort to smile. “Thank you. I appreciate your saying that.” It was good to know that Jimmy, at least, was on his side. Even if it wasn’t of any practical help. 

The next morning at breakfast, the conversation was all about Bates, of course. First a reiteration of how glad everyone was that justice had been done, and how happy everyone would be to see him, and how nice it all was for him and Anna. Once that subject was exhausted, the new arrivals were treated to several different and somewhat contradictory accounts of his and Anna’s romance and his legal troubles. 

“How do we speak to him?” Alfred asked. 

“Normally,” Mrs. Hughes said. “How do you think you speak to him?”

Jimmy got right to the heart of the matter. “What about prison? Or do we pretend it’s never happened?”

Thomas would have liked to know how Mrs. Hughes and Carson would answer that one, but before either of them could, Bates came in, arm-in-arm with his bride. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

Thomas stayed behind, doing his best to look unconcerned, while everyone else flocked around Bates. The seat he was in, next to Mrs. Hughes, was where the head valet sat. He wasn’t budging until someone made him. 

“Welcome back, Mr. Bates,” Carson said. “I’ve waited a long time to say that.”

Thomas was reminded of how when he had come back from a longer absence—at the _Front_ , where he could have been _killed_ , and was serving his country besides, Carson’s warm welcome had consisted of the words _I’ve seen him_. 

If he’d ever had any doubt that nothing in this life was fair, he had proof now. 

Once everyone was done fawning over Bates, and Mrs. Patmore had gone into the kitchen to get him some breakfast, Bates came over to the table and sat across from Thomas. Molesley’s place. That was all right, he supposed, if Molesley didn’t have anything to say about it. “Thomas,” he said. “Still here, I see.”

“It’s Mr. Barrow now, Mr. Bates,” he said. “And yes. I’m still here. And busy as a bee.” 

“There have been some changes since…since you’ve been away,” Carson explained. 

Of course there had. It wasn’t like the world had stood stock-still just because John Bates wasn’t in it. 

“You will have heard about Lady Sybil,” Carson continued. 

Yes, being reminded of that was just what he needed this morning. 

As Bates was going on about some letter he’d written to her ladyship, Mrs. Patmore, Ivy, and Daisy all paraded in to serve Bates a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon. Apparently that took three people. 

“Can we all have one of those?” Molesley asked. 

You could tell he was new, Thomas thought, if he expected what Bates got to have any bearing on what the rest of them got. 

“Welcome back, Mr. Bates,” Daisy said. 

“Thank you, Daisy,” Bates said, tucking in. 

Daisy came back in a moment or so later with her ladyship’s tray for O’Brien to take up. 

“I must be getting off, too,” Thomas observed. “His lordship will be up.” That Thomas would be valeting him, while Bates sat on his arse and shoved eggs down his gob, he hoped would be clear without being spoken.

Bates either didn’t notice or made a good show of not reacting, but Anna gave him a sharp look. Thomas ignored it and sailed out. 

Now, he thought, was the last possible moment that his lordship could decently tell him if he was losing his position. 

“Is something bothering you, Barrow?” his lordship asked as Thomas jerked a suit out of the wardrobe for him. 

“No, my lord. What would be bothering me?”

Lord Grantham sighed heavily. But he didn’t mention Bates. 

Thomas decided to take that as a victory.

#

“I’m so glad for you,” Cora said, after Robert recounted his meeting with Bates as they walked around the garden. “And for him and Anna, of course.”

“Yes, it’s wonderful,” Robert agreed. “A triumph of justice.” He sighed. “Now I have to sort Barrow out. Has O’Brien said anything about what he has planned?”

“No,” she said. “Why? Haven’t you talked with him about it?”

Robert shook his head, sighing. “I’ve been expecting him to hand in his notice since I found out Bates was being released. I can’t imagine he wants to go back to being a footman; clearly the best thing for everyone is for him to move on.”

“I don’t see how you can just sack him,” Cora pointed out. “He’s done nothing wrong.”

Nothing except stubbornly refuse to bow out gracefully. Robert supposed he’d been giving Thomas too much credit to really expect that he might. “He can’t have expected to stay my valet once Bates was released.” He might be trying to pretend that he expected just that, but it had been made clear at the beginning that the position was temporary. 

Robert caught sight of the nurse and ghoulishly-named baby as Cora suggested, “Ask Carson. He’ll have some ideas.”

He’d have to come up with something, he realized. He had gone to great lengths to look after his own wartime friend. What would Sybil think of him chucking hers out with two weeks’ pay in lieu of notice? 

#

Thomas kept himself busy in his lordship’s dressing room for as long as he could—ready to defend his ground if Bates came up and tried to take over. By a little before teatime, though, he began to wonder if he was missing anything downstairs, and took one of his lordship’s hats down to brush in a pointed manner in the servants’ hall as the others trickled in. 

“You got any plans, Mr. Bates?” he asked once he’d judged that a sufficient audience was assembled. The question ought to establish that it was Bates’s future that was uncertain, not his. 

“It’s early to say,” Bates answered. “His lordship suggested I have a rest.”

A rest. Hadn’t he gotten enough of that in prison? No one had suggested that _he_ hang about having a rest after he was de-mobbed. No, then it had been, “When are you leaving, Thomas?” and “This isn’t an hotel, Thomas.” 

Before Thomas could answer, Molesley came in, one of Mr. Matthew’s waistcoats over his arm. “I expect you’ll be looking for something to do, Mr. Barrow. Now that Mr. Bates is back.”

Thomas did his best to look surprised that anyone would suggest it. Oddly, Mrs. Hughes looked a little bit surprised, too. By the idea, or just that someone had broken the conspiracy of silence around the subject? 

This time it was Ivy who interrupted before Thomas could decide how best to express his surprise, by coming in with the tea and causing Alfred to muddle through asking her to go to the pictures with him. He didn’t appear to notice when Ivy tried to get Jimmy to ask her instead. 

It must be nice being normal, Thomas thought, and even nicer being a bit thick. Not only could you go around panting after the object of your affections without a care in the world that someone might notice, but you could also experience no shame whatsoever when she made it plain that you were her second choice. Even if it was all right for him to be interested in, say, Jimmy—just as an example, mind—he’d be mortified to go on making a fool of himself in front of everyone if he wasn’t interested back. 

It was too bad Jimmy didn’t want to go to the pictures, Thomas thought, when Mrs. Hughes told Ivy that she could go if one of the other maids went along. Thomas could have volunteered himself as chaperon, and since Alfred wouldn’t have bowed out, even then—

Well, no, it wouldn’t have been even the slightest bit like he was walking out with Jimmy, and he was sillier than Ivy to have even thought it. His sort didn’t have sweethearts. But still, if Jimmy was part of the group that was going, Thomas might have joined in. He liked going to the pictures as much as the next person.

As soon as tea had finished, Alfred scampered off to the village to buy tickets—perhaps to use as some sort of magic charm against Ivy changing her mind—and Anna and Bates also excused themselves to go out walking. Because they could do that, too. Not only could Bates waltz—or limp—in and steal his job, he could also parade his personal life in front of all and sundry. 

Thomas decided to take the hat back up to the dressing room before anything could happen to it, then consider how to make best use of the Bates-free hour. But before he could complete this plan, Mrs. Hughes stopped him at the bottom of the stairs. She glanced from the hat to his face and back. “His lordship hasn’t, ah, said what will be happening once Mr. Bates has had his rest?”

“Hm?” he said, trying to look surprised. He shook his head slightly. “No. I suppose I’ll just carry on until--” _Damn_. “ _Unless_ someone tells me otherwise,” he corrected himself. 

“That’s probably best,” she said, patting his arm. 

“Why?” he asked suspiciously. “Have you heard something?”

“Not a thing. But surely he’d have told you by now, if….”

Thomas decided he couldn’t quite pretend not to know what she meant, not after Molesley had said it. “I would think so,” he agreed. 

“It doesn’t do to borrow trouble,” she said, patting him again. 

Now that he knew Bates was _having a rest_ , Thomas wasn’t terribly worried that he’d turn up in the dressing room when the gong went, but he was still a little relieved when he didn’t. 

Now, though, his lordship finally raised the subject. “I expect you’ve seen Bates.”

“Yes, my lord,” Thomas said. “Quite happy to see him, everyone was.”

“Good,” his lordship said. “We won’t be making any changes for the next few days.” 

“Changes” couldn’t possibly be good news for him. There wasn’t any other position in the house that Bates was suited to, not with his limp, and if his lordship was going to find something for him in the village, it wasn’t any of Thomas’s business. But he hadn’t quite said that Thomas’s job was going to be handed back to Bates. Best stay on course, then. “Yes, my lord.”

Returning downstairs, he settled in the servants’ hall to have a smoke and think it over. It sounded a bit like his lordship hadn’t quite figured out what to do yet. He might even be having a qualm or two about pushing Thomas out in favor of the jailbird, or—more likely—about the inconvenience of having a valet who was married and lived out. He just might welcome a suggestion, if Thomas could think of some satisfactory option. 

Finding something else for Bates really _would_ be best for everyone, he thought. Not just for him, although of course it would be. But his lordship was used to Thomas now. And—there was a thought—Bates might just hurt himself, limping back and forth between his cottage and the main house early in the morning and late at night, in all sorts of weather. As fond as his lordship was of Bates, that argument might be really effective. 

Of course, any kind of outside work would be even worse, and the village was even further to walk. So perhaps trying to think of Bates’s welfare was the wrong way to go about it. 

No, what he really needed was something else for himself. Now he wished he had been roped into valeting Mr. Matthew—if he had, he’d still have that. But Molesley was pretty firmly entrenched now. If there was some way to get Mrs. Crawley to ask for him back, maybe….

Try as he might, he couldn’t find an angle. The only servant in Crawley House now was Ethel, and they still weren’t supposed to speak to her. Even if he did, she had no reason to help him. Molesley wouldn’t help—he wanted to stay at the big house—and talking to Mrs. Crawley directly was certainly not an option. 

He could probably talk his way into staying on as footman, as Jimmy had suggested. Carson wouldn’t be happy, but if they decided to play it that Thomas’s position as valet had been temporary, they’d have to give him his old job back, wouldn’t they? It was a pretty grim thought. It seemed like he’d spent half his life trying to escape being a footman. 

Before he could think of any other possible plans, he heard a bit of a commotion coming from the kitchen—a welcome distraction from his own problems. Lighting another cigarette, he strolled to the doorway to see what was going on.

Alfred came by, heading for the stairs, holding a platter of…lobster, it looked like. Jimmy followed, at some distance, with the sauce, fuming under his breath, “It’s a flipping insult, just ‘cause he’s ten foot tall….”

“You’re right,” Thomas said as he passed. They were in the same boat, him and Jimmy. The thought was a tiny bit comforting. And if he _was_ going to end up stuck being a footman again, it was more important than ever to ensure that Jimmy’s superiority over Alfred was recognized. It was unlikely that Carson would keep them both, and while working alongside Jimmy might make being a footman almost bearable, doing so with Alfred would be a nightmare. 

Jimmy paused. “I’ve half a mind to--”

Noticing O’Brien at the other end of the corridor, Thomas cut him off before he could say anything too incriminating. “Ah, ah. Don’t do anything you’ll regret. These things can be managed.” He gestured with his cigarette. “But not by losing your temper.”

Jimmy met his eyes and nodded in understanding before going up with the sauce.

Thomas nearly jumped out of his skin when O’Brien said, “You make quite a cozy couple, I must say.”

He wasn’t sure which was worse, the words or that they came from behind him. He didn’t know how she’d gotten there from where he saw her last, but she was sitting down at the table and opening her sewing box. “I don’t think so,” he answered. It wasn’t much of a retort, but at least he managed to keep his voice steady.

“That’s not what I’ve heard,” she answered, in the syrupy-sweet voice that had become so familiar over the last few months. “Alfred says he’s always going on about you. Silly, sloppy stuff. Alfred’s sick and tired of it, and no wonder.”

He couldn’t possibly be. Could he? O’Brien had no reason to tell him such tremendously welcome news as that. 

Except that she was saying it quite loudly enough for anyone passing by to hear. Maybe she’d seen which way the wind was blowing just as clearly as he did, and figured that a rumor like that would be just the way to get one or both of them out of the picture. “He’s making it up,” Thomas said, both to show her he wasn’t falling for it, and to protect Jimmy’s reputation from any eavesdroppers.

“Have it your own way,” she said. 

Thomas retreated to the kitchen—he’d have rather shared the room with a snake than O’Brien, and he might be able to snatch a private moment to ask Jimmy….

To ask him what, exactly? It wasn’t like he could just say, point-blank, _Miss O’Brien says Alfred says you fancy me. Do you?_

He could couch it as a warning, maybe— _Miss O’Brien’s trying to suggest you’re a bit off._

_Off how_? Jimmy might say.

 _Apparently Alfred thinks you’ve got a bit of the tender pash for me._ No, that wouldn’t do. _One of the other blokes here._

 _I don’t know why he’d think that,_ Jimmy might say, obviously frightened. 

_I don’t think anyone but his aunt would listen to him,_ Thomas could say, reassuringly. _But if there is someone you’ve been talking about a lot, you might be more discreet around Alfred._

But that would take more time than they were likely to get during the dinner service. Having Carson or Mrs. Patmore interrupt would be a disaster. Jimmy would have to feel comfortable before he’d admit anything. If there was anything to admit. 

And he was nearly almost certain that there wasn’t, so perhaps he’d best not say anything at all. 

Except that maybe it was the first time Jimmy’d had…longings, like that. Maybe he didn’t know how to be careful, how to find other men like him. Maybe he didn’t realize he was being obvious enough for even an oaf like Alfred to pick up on it. If that was so, Thomas _had_ to help him. He’d had a bit of help, himself, working things out, when he’d been younger. 

Before he could really decide what was best, Jimmy came back down, carrying the picked-over lobster platter, and Alfred trailed him with the sauce boat. 

“What happened?” Thomas asked. 

“Yes, what happened?” Daisy echoed, looking at Alfred. 

Jimmy answered first. “Alfred had a bit of trouble. I think I had better take that,” he added, indicating the meat platter that Daisy was garnishing. 

“What kind of trouble?” Daisy asked, looking back and forth between Alfred and Jimmy.

“A bit of a spill,” Jimmy explained. “Fortunately, her dowager ladyship was a good sport about it.” He collected the meat platter and sailed out, giving Thomas a wink on the way. 

“I don’t know what happened, exactly,” Alfred said morosely as Ivy set up the vegetables for him. “She reached for the spoons, and it tipped somehow. Mr. Carson was very cross.”

“As he should have been,” Thomas said. 

“I’m sure it’ll be all right, Alfred,” Daisy told him. 

“I’m not,” Thomas murmured. Everyone else ignored him, but he did see Alfred flinch slightly.

Thomas did manage to find a few moments to talk to Jimmy before the downstairs dinner, but he was more interested in recounting Alfred’s humiliation than in anything else.

“—right in her lap. ‘Just scrape me down,’ she said.”

“Speaking of Alfred,” Thomas began.

“And she wouldn’t take any vegetables when he went round with them, either. Probably didn’t want to end up wearing those, too.” 

“I suppose not. I had the strangest conversation--”

“Oh, look, they’re taking the stew in. We’d better hurry.”

During supper, the subjects of Alfred’s misfortune and Bates’s return vied for conversational supremacy. 

“Did you have a nice walk?” Mrs. Hughes asked Bates and Anna.

“We did,” Bates said. 

“We looked at cottages,” Anna added. “His lordship is going to arrange for us move into one, like we talked about before—before.”

“Well that’s nice,” Mrs. Hughes said. 

O’Brien leaned over Anna, Bates, and Jimmy to ask Alfred, “What happened before the mishap?”

“Nothing,” Alfred said. 

“Will you be coming up here every day to valet his lordship, then?” Molesley asked Bates.

Before Bates could answer, Anna said, “Of course he will; his lordship won’t be coming down to our house to get dressed. I’m going to go on working as well, at least for a bit.”

“That would make for long days for both of you,” Mrs. Hughes said. 

“We don’t mind that,” Anna answered. “His lordship and the rest of the family have been so kind and supportive. We’ll make sure they aren’t inconvenienced.”

“But how did you spill it?” O’Brien pressed. “I’m sure _you_ weren’t careless. Had the kitchen piled it up on one side of the plate?”

“No, the lobster rolls were fine,” Alfred said. “The only thing was--” He stopped and looked suspiciously at Jimmy. 

And on and on like that. Thomas couldn’t have raised a different topic if he’d tried—not that he could say anything about what was on his mind in front of all the others, anyway. 

By the end of the meal, O’Brien had talked Alfred into realizing that Jimmy had sabotaged him—something to do with rearranging the serving spoons. Thomas thought that he probably had—and good for him—but it was clear that he’d never have worked it out if O’Brien hadn’t led him up to it step-by-step. 

“He put them right on the edge of my plate,” Alfred said, of the spoons. “I’m not saying it was deliberate.”

“I hope you’re not,” Jimmy said. “Because I was trying to help.”

Carson butted in with something about how Alfred could manage without Jimmy’s help—obviously untrue—and dressed Jimmy down for stepping in to salvage the situation. 

Honestly, it was like looking into the past in a magic mirror—how many times had Thomas ended up in trouble after William cocked something up? 

There was a brief moment where Thomas thought that Alfred might, if not actually be punished for his mistake, not be rewarded for it, when Mrs. Patmore came in and observed that the picture-goers hadn’t left yet. 

“Perhaps Alfred no longer wants to go to the pictures,” Carson said. “He may want to ponder his mistakes instead.”

It didn’t sound much like a suggestion to Thomas, but Mrs. Hughes said, “Of course they’re going.”

“Are we?” Ivy asked Carson.

After a long pause, Carson finally said they could go. “But as you walk, you might contemplate what it is to waste a chance when it is given.”

As everyone got up from the table, Alfred and his harem of kitchen maids collected their wraps and scampered off. Thomas made his way over to Jimmy. “It sounds as if Mr. Carson won’t be letting Alfred try his hand at being first footman again for a while, at least,” he offered. 

Jimmy forced a smile. “Perhaps. If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Barrow.”

He left, heading for the back stairs. If he was going up to his room, that would be the ideal spot for the conversation Thomas wanted to have. But it would look a bit odd to follow him—and anyway, his lordship might be going up soon, so he needed to stay where he could answer the bell. 

He’d have to find a moment later.

#

“I know,” Mr. Carson said, before Elsie could speak. “You think I’ve been too hard on young Alfred.”

“If you know, then I won’t tell you,” she answered, sipping her sherry. “It’s nice to see the young people having a bit of fun.”

Carson huffed. “I don’t know what the village council was thinking, scheduling a late picture show for servants. I hope they know they’ll need to be up at the usual time in the morning.”

“I’m sure they do,” Mrs. Hughes answered. At that age, they could get by on an occasional short night’s sleep. “And I expect the village council was thinking it’s a sight easier keeping the young people from taking jobs in the city if there’s something for them to do of an evening now and then.”

“We had no need of such fripperies when we were young,” Carson pointed out.

No need, that was true, but if Elsie remembered her own girlhood, they’d been eager for any fripperies they could get. She changed the subject. “What will Mr. Bates be doing now that he’s back? Once he’s had his rest, of course.”

“Valeting his lordship, of course.”

“Has anyone told Thomas that?” She knew they hadn’t—unless Thomas had flat-out lied both to her and to young James, which seemed unlikely. 

“The arrangement was that he was to fill in while Mr. Bates was away,” Carson reminded her. “Mr. Bates has returned.”

In other words, no, they hadn’t. “If it was as temporary as all that, perhaps filling his old position was a mistake,” she said. “What’s Thomas going to do now?”

“His lordship has asked me to consider the matter,” Carson admitted. 

At least someone had thought of it. “When did he do that?”

“Just after dinner.”

“ _Tonight’s_ dinner?”

“Of course.”

All of them had known for the last three days that Mr. Bates was coming back, and his lordship had known for longer than that, and they’d only begun to consider what to do about Thomas _tonight_? She knew Thomas tended to consider himself ill-used no matter what, but that really was thoughtless. “If he’s being pushed aside, he at least deserves the courtesy of being told.”

“I’m sure he realizes.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t,” she answered. “He suggested that his lordship might have something else in mind for Mr. Bates—something he hadn’t been told about since it didn’t concern him. I thought it likelier that he was right than that no one had given him a moment’s thought before now.” 

“His lordship has other things on his mind than _Thomas_. As have I.”

Elsie supposed that was true, but it hadn’t stopped either of them from making time to think about Mr. Bates’s future. It wouldn’t do anyone any good to keep arguing about it, though. “What are you going to suggest?”

“I haven’t thought about it yet. I don’t want him back as a footman, if there’s any way to avoid it.”

“I shouldn’t think he’d like that much, either.” He’d been much more pleasant since becoming a valet. “The best thing might be to help him find another place as a valet. Or even butler, in a smaller house.”

Carson closed his eyes briefly, as if in horror at the thought. “I’ll write him a strong reference, of course.”

“I think we must do more than that. Certainly Mr. Bates deserves his job back—he’s done nothing wrong. But neither has Thomas.” 

“Not recently,” Carson allowed. 

#

When Thomas came down after undressing his lordship, Jimmy was nowhere to be found. Well, if he was that determined to hide, Thomas would think about his own problems for a while, he decided. He’d review the “positions vacant” announcements in every newspaper he could find. If he saw even one promising place, he’d feel better about things.

He didn’t. There were plenty of places for housemaids, and even more for maids of all work. A few for outside men. There was nothing advertised for a valet, a butler, or even a bloody footman. Plenty of them in the “positions wanted” section, though. And an article on the women’s page about how in today’s smaller households, many of the best families were finding it quite acceptable to have maids wait at table and answer the door.

When everyone else went up to bed, Thomas stayed up, drinking tea and smoking. He was tired, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep—not with things so uncertain. _Damn_ Bates. If only he’d just stayed in prison. Or decided to take up…oh, anything…after getting out. Anything other than valeting. 

He shoved most of the papers into the scrap bin and settled down to read the sports, hoping it might take his mind off things enough that he’d be able to sleep. He was still at it when Jimmy reappeared, a cup of tea in his hand. “Where is everyone?” He came over to the table, but didn’t sit.

That was an even better way to take his mind off things. “They’ve gone to bed,” Thomas answered. “Except for the picture goers. They’re not back.”

“If I’d thrown a bucket of slop in the old lady’s lap, I wouldn’t be allowed to go to the flicks,” Jimmy said. 

“What are you saying?” Thomas asked. He wished he’d sit down, make it clear that he was going to stay a while. 

“Mr. Carson doesn’t like me?”

He was only just noticing that?

“No matter what Alfred does, he still prefers him,” Jimmy continued, looking at Thomas through lowered eyelashes.

He had really pretty eyes, Thomas observed. If he’d only _sit down_ —preferably next to Thomas—he could introduce the subject of what Alfred had said. To buy himself time, he got out a cigarette.

“It’s not bloody fair,” Jimmy continued.

There was that magic mirror again. Except he’d had no one to talk to except O’Brien, and a fat lot of help she’d been. “Well, I love you,” he said. He’d meant to say “like you.” Or maybe he’d meant what he said. How would Jimmy react?

He laughed. “Well if you do, you’re on your own.”

“I’m sure I’m not,” Thomas answered, lighting the cigarette. There was Ivy, for one. “What about your family?” There, if there was any problem, he could say that clearly, he meant he loved Jimmy as a brother might. Or an uncle, since he was older. “Where’re you from?”

“I don’t have any family, not really. Cousins, I mean. No one else.” 

Same as Thomas, then. “And your mum and dad?”

“Dead.” 

Oh. 

“Me dad was killed in the war, and my mother died of the ‘flu. I haven’t any brothers or sisters, so here we are.” He gave Thomas a heartbreaking smile. “All on me ownsome.”

He’d have said much the same thing, himself. Different causes of death, of course. And he did have a sister, but she claimed their father’s heard attack had been brought on by the shock of finding out what Thomas was like. 

She was wrong, of course. Dad hadn’t minded, not all that much. But that’s why he’d have said he didn’t have a sister. He might as well not have one. 

“It must get lonely,” he said. 

“Meaning?” Jimmy asked sharply. 

Yes, of course. If anyone said that to him, he’d have thought it must be an insult. “I know what it’s like, that’s all.” He shrugged and twiddled the cigarette in his fingers. “Funny. We’re quite a pair.”

Jimmy didn’t pick up on the hint the way Thomas had hoped; he mostly looked puzzled. 

“We both like to look very sure of ourselves, but we’re not so sure underneath, are we?” he asked. He _wished_ Jimmy would bloody well catch on. In Jimmy’s place, he’d have cut off his arm to have someone tell him they understood what it was like, being him. But Jimmy didn’t answer. He continued more briskly, “Still, you’ve no need to worry. Mr. Carson may prefer Alfred, but nobody else does.”

“Don’t they? I wonder. Sometimes I think it’s just Jimmy _contra mundi_.”

That was just how Thomas felt. But before he could say so, O’Brien barged in. Thomas hadn’t even realized she was still up; he wouldn’t have said half the things he’d said if he realized she was around. 

“Is that Latin?” she asked. “I should try it on Mr. Carson if I were you. Make up some points.”

Bad advice, Thomas thought—Carson would likely just think Jimmy was showing off. 

“Never mind Latin,” Jimmy said. “I need a magic spell.”

“Goodnight,” O’Brien said. 

If she was leaving, they could get back to their private conversation, Thomas hoped. And it wouldn’t take much longer to bring it round to what Alfred had said. 

But Jimmy put down his cup, looked at Thomas through his eyelashes again, and left. Thomas could have gone after him, if only O’Brien would _leave_ , but she didn’t. Just stood there smirking at him.

Thomas picked up his abandoned newspaper, making clear that he had no interest in talking to her.

“He’s a funny one, isn’t he?”

That was exactly what Thomas was trying to find out. And if he was, he didn’t want O’Brien knowing about it. He took a drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke out slowly, meeting her eyes.

“You can’t pull the wool over my eyes. I know what’s going on.”

“You’re quite wrong, Miss O’Brien. He’s a proper little ladies’ man.” She had damn well better think he was, whether he was or not. If they did…if Jimmy was, Thomas ought to suggest he pretend to be at least a little bit interested in Ivy, to throw off suspicion. 

O’Brien scoffed. “If that’s the way you want to play it.”

Thomas slapped the newspaper down. “What are you going on about?” He’d make her say it, actually come out and accuse them of something. That way he could tell her it wasn’t true—right now, while it most definitely wasn’t. 

“There’s no need to bark. I only know what Alfred tells me.”

“Well, if he says Jimmy’s interested in me, he’s lying.” Thomas lowered his voice; if O’Brien was lurking, there was no telling who else was. 

“Would he? Is it supposed to be a secret?”

Of _course_ it bloody well was. If there _was_ anything going on, they wouldn’t be parading it in front of everyone like Ivy and Alfred or Anna and Bates. He decided not to even dignify the question with a response.

Finally, _finally_ , she left. Too late to catch up to Jimmy on the stairs now, though. He could go to his room and talk to him, though. Except it would look odd.

But if everyone else was in bed, it wouldn’t look odd because there was no one to see. Except Jimmy. And if O’Brien _wasn’t_ lying, he wouldn’t mind. 

The question was, was O’Brien acting like she was trying to trick him, or like she had a secret to hold over his head? He couldn’t quite tell. He knew she was up to something, but he didn’t know what. 

It was risky either way. He’d have to go pretty far in order to convince Jimmy it was safe to confide in him—far enough that if Jimmy wasn’t like that, he’d have something he could tell the others. 

And if he _was_ …O’Brien was already suspicious. If things changed between them, she might notice. Might arrange for them to be caught, or to get her hands on some kind of proof. 

But he was about to be sacked anyway, most likely. She couldn’t build a case against him in a few days. Why not…seize the opportunity? What was it Carson had said at dinner? “As you walk, you might contemplate what it is to waste a chance when it is given.”

Thomas contemplated it, as he walked up the stairs to his room, as he started undressing. This was a chance. He really liked Jimmy. Understood him. 

He was done falling in love with toffs, he’d told Mailer. But Jimmy wasn’t a toff—he was a working class lad like Thomas. They could—

They couldn’t have a public romance like Anna and Bates, with his lordship’s blessing and an ivy-covered cottage. But they could have something. And maybe…maybe if he did find a place as a butler, later on, he could arrange for Jimmy to be hired. If he was butler and Jimmy was second man, they’d be able to spend a lot of time together, with no one thinking anything of it. 

If he didn’t take this chance, he’d always wonder if it could have happened. It gnawed at him, wondering how things might have been different if he’d said something to Edward Courtenay. If he’d been just a little bit braver. Did he need another regret like that to carry with him?

When he stood up and went back into the corridor, Thomas felt a sense of peace, as if he couldn’t have decided anything else. He was doing the right thing.

Still, he hesitated outside Jimmy’s room for a long moment, with his hand on the doorknob. Should he knock? No—he might wake someone else that way, Carson or Bates. He let himself in, the creak of the door sounding loud in the stillness of the night.

Jimmy was…asleep. Somehow, Thomas hadn’t expected that. He stood looking at him, trying to decide what to do. He’d gone too far to back out now, hadn’t he?

He closed the door behind him, very slowly. It didn’t creak again. 

Jimmy didn’t stir.

Maybe, he thought, maybe this was just as well. He hadn’t worked out what he was going to say, how to make sure that Jimmy didn’t misunderstand, and think Thomas was threatening him or something. But without words, there could be no misunderstanding. 

He sat on the edge of the bed. Still, Jimmy didn’t move. Blimey, he was a heavy sleeper. Thomas considered how best to do this, then put one hand on either side of Jimmy’s body to steady himself as he leaned in.

Jimmy had just started to turn toward him when the door banged open and Alfred started saying, “Sorry to wake you, Jimmy--”

Thomas missed whatever else he said, because Jimmy was awake now. “Get off!” he yelled, thrashing around like someone who had just walked into a spider web. “Get the bloody hell off me!”

God _damn_ Alfred. Thomas backed up hastily. It had been going well, he knew it had. 

“Alfred, it’s not what you think,” Jimmy said, getting out of bed.

“Don’t do that,” Thomas said. “Please. Alfred doesn’t matter. No one’ll believe a word he says. He’s nothing.” 

Jimmy turned to him, his face distorted with rage. “What are you doing? Why are you in here?”

Showing a bit of sense for once, Alfred slipped out. Good, they were alone again; Thomas could get things back on track. “Because of…what you said. Because of all there is between us.” He reached toward Jimmy, hoping to reassure him that it would all be all right now.

Jimmy brushed him away. “There’s nothing between us except my fist if you don’t get out!” He stormed over to the door, as if making sure Thomas knew where it was. 

No, that couldn’t be. Thomas tried to think of something to say, some way to fix things. 

Turning back toward him, Jimmy said, “If you tell anyone--”

“But w-what about the things you said?” Whatever they had been. 

“I said nothing except get out!” He shoved Thomas toward the door. “Go on, get out, Thomas!” With a fairly substantial shove, he propelled Thomas into the corridor and slammed the door behind him. Thomas thought he heard the lock click.

Thomas had not yet gathered his wits when Carson slammed his way out of his own room, still tying the belt of his dressing gown. “What is going on?”

“Nothing, Mr. Carson.” That was never going to work, he must have heard all the yelling. “Jimmy.” He pointed back toward his room in illustration. “James. Had a nightmare.” That was almost plausible, wasn’t it? “He’s fine now.”

Carson did not look at all convinced, but he returned to his bedroom without further questions, and that was about the best Thomas could hope for at the moment.

He stood in the corridor for a moment longer, trying to collect himself. He wanted to try to talk to Jimmy again—say he was sorry, say—he didn’t know what. But he couldn’t do that; if Jimmy made more of a commotion than he already had, Carson would definitely have questions. 

Looking back toward Jimmy’s room, he saw that the next room’s door was ajar, and Alfred was watching him, his face contorted into an ugly expression. Looked a bit constipated, actually. In the circumstances, it wasn’t particularly funny.

Thomas made his way back to his own room, the few feet seeming like miles. 

Just a few minutes before, he’d been thinking of all the nice things that could happen if he was brave. 

Stupid, more like. He should never have believed O’Brien. Should never have thought something would go right for him for a change. 

Curling up on his bed, he cried silently. The worst part was, even as he did it, he kept hoping that Jimmy would come in and say, _What are you crying for? You didn’t believe any of that rubbish, did you? I just wanted to get Alfred off the scent._

But by the time Thomas fell into an exhausted sleep, he still hadn’t. 

In the morning, after dragging himself out of bed, Thomas washed his face carefully and studied himself in the mirror, making sure he didn’t look like he’d been crying. He didn’t. He looked like a week-old corpse, but not one that had been crying. 

That was probably the best he could hope for, under the circumstances. When he went down to breakfast, Jimmy and Alfred were sitting together, chatting like nothing had happened. 

That was good, he reminded himself. If neither of them raised a stink, he was no worse off than he had been before. Except for losing Jimmy’s friendship. 

The porridge was gluier than usual this morning, and the toast wasn’t much better. He pushed both aside and sipped his tea—that, at least, tasted all right. 

“You look a bit tired, Mr. Barrow,” Mrs. Hughes observed.

“I didn’t sleep well,” Thomas said. 

She clucked her tongue and patted his arm. “I’m sure it’ll be all right.”

She thought he was worried about his job, Thomas realized. Well, he probably would have lost some sleep over that, even if the other thing hadn’t happened. “I hope so,” he said. 

“Thomas,” Anna said from his other side. She was back in her usual place, since Bates hadn’t shifted himself to join them.

“Mr. Barrow,” he corrected sharply.

She sighed slightly and continued, “Have you thought that you might be _happier_ in another house?”

“I’ll decide where I’d be happier, thanks,” he said. 

She left him alone after that. 

When Thomas decided he couldn’t quite stand the tension anymore, he picked up the toast platter and offered the last slice to Alfred and Jimmy. That was considerate, wasn’t it? Like he wanted to see if they wanted it, before he took it himself?

They both ignored him. Maybe that meant they hadn’t noticed how his hand was shaking when he did it. He could only hope.

Someone had noticed, though. “What is it?” Anna asked. “What’s going on?”

Mrs. Hughes picked up on it. “James? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Jimmy said, in a voice of brittle cheer.

Good. That was good. Nothing was wrong, right. 

“Alfred?” 

“Ask Mr. Barrow,” Alfred said. 

Damn. “It’s nothing. Really.”

“Doesn’t seem like nothing,” Molesley said with a nervous laugh. 

Ivy came in with a new platter of toast, and Jimmy introduced a welcome distraction by saying, “Ivy! Never mind the toast; you’re looking very tasty yourself this morning!”

Alfred took a brief break from looking constipated to stare at him. 

“What did you say?” asked Mr. Carson.

“Can’t a red-blooded man compliment a pretty girl?” Jimmy asked.

Yes, Jimmy liked girls. Message received, thank you.

“Not at breakfast, for heaven’s sake,” Carson told him. 

Ivy darted back to the kitchen. As Alfred got up to go after her, O’Brien stuck her oar in. “Alfred, what’s happened?”

“Not now,” Alfred told her.

So Alfred hadn’t gone running to his auntie yet. But he planned to. It was highly unlikely that she’d cover for him, or urge Alfred to keep his mouth shut. The best he could hope for might be that she’d encourage him to keep what he’d seen in reserve to use against him later. 

“Well if there is anything I ought to know, I hope I hear about it by the end of the day,” Carson pronounced. 

Alfred left, after giving Thomas one last constipated look. Jimmy looked at Thomas for the first time all morning, raising his eyebrows slightly. 

Thomas wasn’t quite sure how to read that. It didn’t sound like Jimmy wanted anyone to know what had happened, any more than he did. He might be able to use that. Get him to help deal with Alfred. 

Breakfast was just about over, so Thomas went outside for a smoke and thought things over. An apology would be the best way to start. _I’m sorry about what happened_ , he’d say. _It was a misunderstanding._ Jimmy would want to know what he had misunderstood, of course. And then Thomas could say, _Alfred’s been going around telling people you fancy me_. Jimmy would react with some sort of outrage, and he’d say, _Yes, I actually went in to talk to you about how you ought to be more careful. He’s lying, of course. I understand that now, and it won’t happen again. But you see, he must have hoped something would happen that would make you look bad._

And then Jimmy would see how it hadn’t really been his fault, and they’d work together on some way to sort out Alfred. They might even be able to be friends again—in a normal, red-blooded way, of course. 

Pleased with the plan, he went inside. It was nearly time for his lordship to get up, but when he ran into Jimmy in the corridor, he decided to start now. “Jimmy--”

“I’m very busy, Mr. Barrow,” he said, and brushed past him without meeting his eyes.

He tried again when he came back down after dressing his lordship, and again after lunch. Each time, Jimmy refused to let him get more than a single word into his speech. 

Thomas decided he wouldn’t be brushed off again. When Jimmy came down from taking the tea tray up, Thomas stopped him by the stairs. “Jimmy,” he began.

Jimmy leaned in and hissed, “If you don’t stop bothering me, I’m going to tell Mr. Carson.”

Damn it. “I’m only trying to say how sorry I am that--”

“Fine,” Jimmy said. “You’ve said it. Now _let me alone_ , if you know what’s good for you.”

That had not gone according to plan at all. He went outside for another cigarette to regroup. 

The bright side, he thought, was that Jimmy had as much as said he wouldn’t tell Carson if Thomas left him alone in future. The down side was that there wasn’t any way Thomas could enlist his help with Alfred while leaving him alone. 

He briefly considered writing a note, but he wasn’t sure if that would count as leaving him alone—and Jimmy might not read it, anyway. Even worse, there wasn’t any way he could explain without putting things in writing that could be used against him. He’d learned that much from the Duke of Crowborough, at least. 

Confronting Alfred on his own could only make things worse. If he and O’Brien had cooked up the story together, he’d be quite pleased with how things had turned out. And if he hadn’t—if O’Brien had involved him in the whole sordid business without his knowledge—well, he might be a bit angry at O’Brien, but Thomas didn’t see how that would help him. 

He tried to think of another ally he could enlist, and came up blank. Alfred and O’Brien wouldn’t have been able to trick him as they had if he was normal, so telling anyone his side of things would mean admitting…well. There was no one he could trust with a secret like that. No one in the house who might help him, no one he could even write to for advice without putting things in writing that were best not committed to ink and paper. 

All he could do was wait. Carson had said he wanted to hear about it by the end of the day. If nothing had happened by the time everyone went up to bed—say, midnight, just to be safe—he might be in the clear. Every agonizing hour that ticked by brought him one hour closer. 

#

“I’ll wear the dinner jacket tonight,” Robert said. 

Thomas said, “Yes, my lord,” but went on putting the studs into an evening shirt. 

“So I’ll need a dinner shirt.”

Thomas looked down at what he was doing. “Oh. Yes, my lord. Of course you will.”

Taking the studs back out, he dropped several of them. As he started hunting them up, Robert held on to his patience with both hands and suggested, “Perhaps you could do that later, and get the shirt I’ll be wearing now.”

He’d thought at first that Thomas was sulking—not an unreasonable assumption where Thomas was concerned—but he seemed more anxious than anything. He did manage to get Robert into his dinner jacket without further incident. When he was brushing the back of the coat—something he usually did before Robert had put it on, but he decided not to complain just now—Robert said, “You seem nervous today, Barrow.”

Thomas didn’t answer—not even a, “Yes, my lord.” 

If he’d finally faced up to the fact that he wasn’t going to be Robert’s valet much longer, that might explain the nervousness. “We will get things sorted out,” Robert said. “We won’t leave you in the lurch.”

Perhaps trying to reassure him was a mistake. Thomas proved he was still up to his old tricks by saying, “I’d be grateful if you could let me know when you’ve made a decision.”

Robert turned around to face him, about to tell him in no uncertain terms that the decision about who was to be his valet had been made, and as far as he was concerned there was no decision to make. But Thomas looked so downcast that Robert was quite sure he already knew that. “I’ll talk things through with Carson,” he said instead, “and we’ll see what we can come up with.”

Thomas nodded, looking like Robert had just told him he had a fatal disease.

Why it should matter that much to him whether he was valet or something else, Robert had no idea. True, he’d been after the post for a long time—since before the war, even—but surely one job was more or less like another. He tried again. “I thought you’d want to look for a place as a valet elsewhere, but if you’d rather stay—at Downton,” he added, to avoid giving the impression that staying on as his valet was at all negotiable, “I expect we can find something for you to do.”

“That’s kind of you to say, my lord,” Thomas said, putting the clothes-brush back on its shelf. “There aren’t as many good places, since the war. A lot of households are reducing staff.” 

“Ah.” He’d known that, of course—Downton nearly had, and Matthew likely thought they still should. But he hadn’t quite thought of it from a servant’s point of view. Under the circumstances, perhaps Thomas would consider himself lucky to be a footman again. “If I’d known Bates’s situation was going to change so quickly, I’d have made sure we asked about your plans before filling your old position. I don’t like to let either of the others go, now that they’re here, but you have been here longer. We’ll see what Carson has to say, and let you know in a day or two. All right?”

Thomas finally managed to get his chin up at that. “Yes, my lord. Thank you.”

#

Thomas tried to be cheered by what his lordship had said. True, he’d made it plain that Bates would be his valet again, but he’d also as much as admitted that tossing Thomas out on his ear would be unfair. He’d likely at least be offered the job of first footman back.

At least, if Carson didn’t present his lordship with a fresh objection. Like, oh, say, Thomas being a filthy sodomite. 

When he returned downstairs, Carson looked at him with no more than the usual amount of disapproval, so it seemed he didn’t know yet. Four more hours to go, and for the next hour and a half at least, Jimmy and Alfred would be too busy serving dinner to tattle on anyone. 

He sat in the servants’ hall and checked the day’s papers. It would be lovely to be offered the first footman place back and to be able to say he was very grateful, but he’d already found a place as valet to Lord So-and-so. 

Shortly after he’d started, Mrs. Hughes came in, carrying two cups of tea. To his surprise, she sat one in front of him. “You look like you could use this.”

“Thank you,” he said. He gestured at the papers. “I’m just—considering my options.”

“Ah,” she said, sipping from her own cup. “His lordship has told you his plans, then?”

“Mr. Bates is going to be valet again, of course,” Thomas said. Pretending he’d ever thought otherwise would only make him look foolish now. 

Mrs. Hughes nodded. She likely already knew that. Likely everyone did. “I don’t mind saying, he ought to have told you sooner.”

Thomas shook his head. He was about to say that he’d known, really, when he remembered that he’d said he didn’t, when he was doing the old plan. “I ought to have realized,” he said instead. “Silly of me, really.”

As he said it, Thomas realized for the first time that he really _hadn’t_ been sure—not until his lordship said so. He’d told himself that he was only pretending to think he had a chance, but deep down, he’d really thought he did.

Which just went to show how stupid he really was. “He did say they might be able to find something for me, if I want to stay. Thought that was kind of him.”

“If you were meant to understand all along that being his valet was temporary, it seems the least he could do,” Mrs. Hughes answered. 

Thomas looked over at her with genuine surprise. It almost sounded like she was _taking his side_. “Yes, well,” he said, to cover his confusion.

She went on, “Of course I’m pleased that justice has been done and Mr. Bates has been released.”

“Yes, of course,” Thomas agreed. Thrilling and wonderful, it was. 

“But it’s a bit hard for you. Particularly as you’ve been so pleasant and helpful lately.”

Thomas thought at first that she was being sarcastic. But she didn’t sound like it. And if you discounted today, he supposed he had been, really. He muttered something about trying to turn over a new leaf. 

“I thought you had,” she answered. Standing up, she gestured at the papers and added, “If there’s anything I can do to help….”

“Thank you. That’s…I appreciate that.”

Of course, Thomas reminded himself as she left, she didn’t know the latest. If only he hadn’t blundered so horribly last night, he might have something to be happy about, in having both her and his lordship offer at least limited support. 

He might even hold on to it, if Alfred kept his mouth shut. 

Improbably, the evening went on to improve from there. The upstairs and downstairs dinners both finished without incident. Afterwards, as Thomas lingered in the servants’ hall, keeping an eye on Carson’s pantry so he could be prepared if he saw Alfred going in there, O’Brien came in to taunt him, but she only asked, “Have you and Jimmy had a tiff, then?”

Not only had Alfred not told Carson, but it seemed like he hadn’t told her, either. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he answered. 

“Only that you’re ordinarily so close, but he seems to be giving you the cold shoulder today.”

“Is he? I hadn’t noticed.”

She flipped open her magazine with a high degree of skepticism. 

Carson started shooing them all off to bed a bit early—perhaps he was tired himself, after the interruptions. Thomas made sure he was the last one up, in case Alfred was waiting until the eleventh hour. 

He’d made it through the day. That didn’t mean Alfred couldn’t still report him, of course. But if he did, he’d have to explain why he hadn’t done so earlier. Thomas didn’t think it likely that Carson would have much anger left over for Alfred if he heard what Thomas had done, however belatedly, but Alfred might not know that. Despite how much trouble hope had made for him lately, Thomas dared to hope that he was past the worst of it.

The next day, the arrival of Kieran Branson, Tom’s brother, provided enough distraction that the others might not have noticed any lingering coolness between Thomas and the footmen. He apparently didn’t have quite as much raw nerve as his brother; he came round to the back door and had a cup of tea with them in the servants’ hall. He’d have to deal with them upstairs eventually, Thomas supposed, but he didn’t blame Kieran one bit for wanting to fortify himself first. 

He was also not nearly as stuck on himself as Branson was. Thomas had expected him to start railing about Irish independence or trades unions or something, based on Branson’s conversation, but instead he settled down to recount a music hall show he’d seen on the way down. As he told an increasingly funny series of jokes, Thomas found the tension of the last couple of days left him, and when Kieran finished, “—and then the vicar says, Damn it—sorry, ladies, _blast_ it, Duchess, get your hand off my knee!” Thomas found himself laughing as much as the rest of them. 

It all came to an abrupt halt when Mr. Carson came in, of course, followed shortly thereafter by Branson and Lady Mary. It turned out he did have the family supply of nerve after all, because he tried to refuse the invitation to dine upstairs, only giving in when Branson got into a strop about it.

At least that way Thomas didn’t miss any of the amusement, going up to dress his lordship. 

As Thomas started to get out the black tie, Lord Grantham said, “We do have a guest this evening.”

“Yes, my lord,” he answered. “Mr. Kieran Branson did indicate that he won’t be dressing for dinner.” 

His lordship thought for a moment, then said, “Well, then I suppose the dinner jacket is best. I wouldn’t want Mr. Kieran Branson to be uncomfortable.”

Thomas was fairly sure he’d be uncomfortable no matter what his lordship wore, but he was glad his lordship felt he’d chosen rightly about the jacket. 

“I take it you’ve met the brother, then?” his lordship continued as Thomas worked.

“Yes, my lord. He had a cup of tea downstairs when he arrived. I expect he felt he could relax a bit more there.”

“I suppose. What’s he like?”

“Not very much like Mr. Branson, my lord,” Thomas said cautiously. “He’s quite…lively. He doesn’t seem to be particularly political,” he added, hoping that detail might be welcome news. 

“Well, that’s something,” his lordship sighed, checking his black tie in the mirror. 

As he went downstairs, Thomas began to feel just a little bit pleased with himself. He’d been pleasant and helpful, just as Mrs. Hughes said. It wouldn’t help about the valeting job, but nothing was ever going to help with that. 

His good mood lasted through dinner and a little beyond, up until the moment when Mr. Carson came out of his pantry and said, through clenched teeth, “Mr. Barrow. I would like to speak with you.”

“Ah,” he said. “His lordship hasn’t gone up yet; he might ring any minute--”

“Now, Barrow.”

He went into Carson’s pantry, feeling like he might be sick. 

After shutting the door firmly behind him and sitting at his desk, Carson said, “Alfred has just told me a very distressing story.”

“Has he,” Thomas said. He wasn’t going to confess—if Alfred had been too shy to say exactly what he’d seen, Thomas wasn’t going to help him along. 

“Yes,” Carson said. He waited for a long moment.

Thomas waited right back at him. 

“He says that the night before last, when he returned from the village, he went into James’s room. You were there.”

“I was,” Thomas agreed. There was absolutely nothing wrong with that. 

“On James’s bed.”

Thomas nodded. That much, he could explain away.

“Kissing him.”

But not that. Thomas clenched his jaw and tried not to react. 

“I don’t need to tell you that this is a criminal offense.”

No, he really didn’t. “We hadn’t… _done_ anything,” Thomas said weakly. Carson was being slightly more reasonable than Thomas had feared he might—he hadn’t even raised his voice yet.

“But you were hoping to do something if Alfred hadn’t come in.”

“It’s not against the law to hope, is it?” he managed. 

Now he raised his voice. “Don’t you get clever with me when you should be horsewhipped.” 

That was more what Thomas had been expecting. 

But Carson went on to take several deep breaths, and seemed to be making an effort to control himself before he continued. “Do you have a defense? Am I mistaken in any part of this?” 

He wouldn’t be put off with some barely-plausible excuse, Thomas knew—his voice was positively dripping with skepticism. He wouldn’t play along if Thomas claimed that he’d somehow tripped and fallen on Jimmy’s lips. “Not really, Mr. Carson,” he admitted. He might get a point or two for not even trying to lie. “As for a defense…what can I say?” Saying that O’Brien had told him to do it wouldn’t help—it wasn’t as though she’d forced him to do it against his will. He’d wanted to do it, and it was wanting to that was the problem. 

Not to mention, if he explained what she’d said, Carson might think there was some truth in it. Even though Jimmy wouldn’t so much as accept his apology, Thomas didn’t want to take him down with him. “I was…very drawn to him,” he said instead. “And I’d got the impression he felt the same way. I was wrong.” Best to make that absolutely clear.

“It seems an odd mistake to make,” Carson noted. 

If he was thinking there was anything off about Jimmy, Thomas had to set that right. “When you’re like me, Mr. Carson,” he explained carefully, “you have to learn to read the signs as best you can, because no one dares speak out.” He wouldn’t have dared say that, either, if Carson was still going on about how he deserved to be horsewhipped. 

“I do not wish to take a tour of your revolting world,” Carson said.

“No.” Of course he didn’t. 

“So. Are you saying that James is the innocent party in all this?”

“Yes, Mr. Carson.” That was exactly what he was saying. “He is.”

Carson looked at him for a long moment. “I’ll take time to consider. And we must first find out what James intends to do. He’d be within his rights to report you to the police.”

He wouldn’t. Could he? Thomas didn’t think kissing was illegal, even if Jimmy would.

But maybe it was. The law was vague—whoever wrote it shrank from actually naming what it prohibited.

“Although I’m quite sure it won’t come to that,” Carson said, almost kindly.

Of course, he’d have an interest in keeping it all quiet—the house didn’t need another scandal. Jimmy wouldn’t report him—certainly not if Carson discouraged it. 

“Will you give me your word that nothing had happened?” he continued.

“I will. Yes.” He’d have lied, of course, if something had. But he wasn’t lying. That had to help, didn’t it?

“Right,” Carson said, with a note of finality. “Good night.”

After leaving Carson’s lair, Thomas leaned against the wall, shaking. He wasn’t being arrested, or even sacked. Not right this minute, at least. Carson taking time to consider could only be a good thing in the circumstances. He was clearly trying—difficult as it was to believe—not to overreact.

Mrs. Hughes passed, on the way to Carson’s pantry. “Mr. Barrow, his lordship just rang. Are you all right?”

“Yes,” he said, straightening up. “I just—felt dizzy for a moment.”

He hurried upstairs. 

As Thomas was taking him out of his dinner jacket, his lordship said, “I haven’t had a chance to talk with Carson yet.”

Thomas flinched. 

He meant about the job, of course. Right. “Yes, my lord,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. 

He must not have succeeded, because his lordship gave him a sharp look. “Really,” he said. “There’s no need to be so worried.”

There most certainly was; his lordship just didn’t know about it. The idea of confessing everything crossed Thomas’s mind—but Carson had already taken it surprisingly well; he couldn’t expect that luck to hold. No, if he kept his mouth shut, there was at least a chance Carson would decide not to trouble his lordship with it. “I suppose not, my lord,” he agreed. 

When his lordship went through to the bedroom, Thomas lingered for a moment, making sure everything was tidy. He had no interest at all in going back downstairs—a cup of tea would have been nice, but not if he had to face anyone to get it. 

Going up to his own room, he decided that a bath would be just as good. No one was in the servants’ bathroom at the moment, and it was the men’s night to use it. He ran the bath a little deeper than they were really supposed to, and settled in for a soak. He might not have another chance for some time—if he was sacked, he’d have to get the cheapest lodgings he could find. Might as well take advantage while he could. 

Thomas wasn’t sure that the bath actually helped him feel any better, but at least he was left alone in there, and when he’d finished, he didn’t feel any worse. 

At least, not until he emerged from the bathroom and saw Alfred waiting there with a towel. The constipated look returned. “What were you doing in there?” he demanded.

“Bathing,” Thomas answered. “What do you think?”

“You took long enough about it.”

“I didn’t know anyone was waiting,” he pointed out. “You could have knocked.” Of course, if Thomas had known it was him waiting, he probably wouldn’t have hurried. But Alfred had no way of knowing that. Not for certain. 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Alfred asked. 

What the hell was he trying to imply? “That doesn’t even make sense.” 

“I know what you are.”

“And I know you’re an idiot, so I expect we’re even.” He hurried back to his room before Alfred could say anything else. 

So much for being pleasant and helpful.


	8. What Happened After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Honesty, revelations, and cricket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of the road, folks! As usual, any dialogue you recognize comes from the show. One last thank-you to Shino716 and to all my readers! Merry Christmas and happy Downton Day!

In novels, people were always waking up and not quite remembering the terrible things that had happened the night before. Thomas wondered if that ever happened in real life. It certainly didn’t to him. He woke feeling like there was a brick sitting in his stomach, and there wasn’t even a second where he didn’t remember why. 

Thomas had steeled himself for the worst when he first showed his face downstairs. Surely everyone knew by now, as big a blabbermouth as Alfred was. But no one did anything worse than give him funny looks, and they’d been doing that for days. 

Bates was down for breakfast, for a change. He’d had enough rest, Thomas supposed. He caught Thomas looking at him and said, “Why don’t you stop sulking, Thomas?”

Thomas ignored him. 

He spent the rest of the morning pressing shirts. He’d always liked doing that. There was something satisfying about passing the hot iron over wrinkled cloth, and seeing it come out smooth on the other side. 

Thomas wasn’t quite ready to face the world by the time he’d finished his lordship’s things, so he started on his own. At noon, he talked Mrs. Patmore into putting a sandwich together for him, claiming to be very, very busy, and ate it in the pressing room. 

He’d just finished it and was trying to think of something else he could iron—perhaps he’d venture out long enough to ask Molesley if he had anything that wanted pressing—when Mrs. Hughes came in. “Mr. Barrow, are you hiding in here?”

“Yes,” he said. There wasn’t the slightest point in not being honest now, was there? 

“May I ask why?”

“I happen to like ironing,” he answered. That was honest if he pretended he thought she was asking why he’d chosen this particular hiding place. 

“In that case, you’re welcome to do the table linens if you like.”

“All right,” Thomas said. She kept him well supplied with things to iron for the rest of the afternoon, and even brought him a cup of tea and some bread and butter at teatime. Perhaps, he thought, he could just stay in here and iron things forever.

He might have done if it weren’t for Mr. Carson. He came in as it drew toward evening, and cast a very skeptical look at what Thomas was doing. “Mr. Barrow, if you think this is helping, you are sadly mistaken.”

“Mrs. Hughes asked me to,” he answered. 

“When you’ve quite finished, come and see me in my pantry.”

Thomas decided he’d better not take Carson completely at his word—he was already ironing tablecloths that he’d never seen used, but Mrs. Hughes’s supply of things to iron seemed inexhaustible. If he waited until he was entirely finished, he might spend the rest of his life in here, ironing. 

The thought was not without appeal, but he didn’t imagine Carson would be amused. He finished the set he was on, put the irons up to cool, and went. 

“Mr. Bates has had his rest now, and wants to get back to work,” Carson began.

Thomas swallowed hard and nodded. 

“It’s time to draw a line under this whole unfortunate episode.”

“So I go out the window,” he said, almost under his breath. He should never have expected anything else.

“I cannot hide that I find your situation revolting,” Carson said, “but whether or not you believe me, I am not entirely unsympathetic.”

He was right; Thomas didn’t believe him. 

“You have been twisted by nature into something foul, and even I can see that you did not ask for it.” Before Thomas could object to that characterization, he went on, “I think it better that you resign, quietly, citing the excuse that Mr. Bates has returned. I will write a perfectly acceptable reference, and you will find that there’s nothing about it that’s hard to explain.”

“I see,” he said. He could regroup from this. He could think of something. “What about tonight?”

“It’s nearly time to change, so you should dress him tonight, and Mr. Bates take over tomorrow.”

That just went to show what hypocrites they all were. If it was really a problem—if Carson really thought he wasn’t fit to work here—he wouldn’t have dressed his lordship this morning, let alone tonight. 

Pointing that out wouldn’t help him. By Mr. Carson’s lights, he was being generous. If Thomas burned through that trace of sympathy he’d mentioned, it would only make things worse. He started for the door, quashing down everything he felt about the whole mess. 

No. If there was one advantage in any of this, it was that he could speak what was on his mind. This once. He turned back. “I’m not foul, Mr. Carson,” he said quietly. He was taking a stand, but he didn’t want to be overheard doing it. “I’m not the same as you, but I’m not foul.”

“Yes, well,” Carson said, heaving himself out of his chair. “We’ve spoken enough on this subject. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll ring the gong.” He opened the door, revealing that O’Brien was standing there.

How much had she heard? 

It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter if she’d heard all of it; she’d got what she wanted. He lingered in the pantry until she’d gone, though. 

When he got to the dressing room, his lordship said, “Carson tells me you’ve handed in your notice after all.”

Carson had told him that, had he? He must have been quite confident that Thomas would play along.

Of course, Thomas didn’t have much choice. “Yes, my lord,” he said, getting out the dinner jacket.

“Have you found another situation after all?”

He wasn’t going to play along to that extent. “No, my lord.”

For a moment, Thomas thought that his lordship might ask why he was leaving. He wasn’t sure what he’d say, then. But when he finally spoke, he just said, “Are you working out your notice? I shouldn’t require it, under the circumstances, but if you did, you’d still be here for the match.”

For a second, Thomas didn’t understand what he was talking about. Then he remembered--the annual cricket match. Thomas loved the cricket match; it was the one time all year when anybody appreciated him. “I hadn’t thought of that, my lord.”

“Well, it would be a shame to lose our star player just before the match.”

“Yes, my lord,” he said. “I’m…not sure what Mr. Carson will say.”

“I don’t see why he’d object.”

Thomas did, but didn’t want to tell him. “If I’m still here, I’d be happy to play, my lord.” Carson wouldn’t like it, and Thomas doubted he’d be particularly comfortable himself, but he’d have his meals and a place to lay his head, without paying for it. He was in no position to turn that down out of pride. 

When he went back downstairs, Thomas took refuge in the pressing room again. He did go out for a bit of supper—more because if he didn’t, it would be painfully obvious to everyone that he was hiding than because he was actually hungry. 

Bates was sitting in his place, between Mrs. Hughes and Anna. He almost argued about it—Bates wasn’t taking over until tomorrow, after all. But he’d only make himself look ridiculous. He slipped quietly into the seat next to Molesley.

Either Molesley hadn’t heard yet, or was so pleased that the cricket match was coming that he didn’t care; he talked Thomas’s ear off the whole time, while Thomas picked at Mrs. Patmore’s chicken pie. 

It was probably every bit as good as usual—everyone else seemed to be enjoying it—but to Thomas, it tasted like cardboard. He separated the peas out and lined them up in a row, like little soldiers in green uniforms. The carrots could be the artillery, he decided. 

God, what a nauseating thought. He pushed his plate away. 

“Something wrong with it?” Mrs. Patmore said as she came around collecting the plates. 

“No,” he said. “I’m just not very hungry.”

Bates said something under his breath about sulking. 

Thomas pushed his chair back with a loud scrape. “Yes, and I think I’ll go do some more of it. Excuse me.”

Mrs. Hughes came to the pressing room not long after, with a dish of cherry crumble. “I thought you might like some pudding,” she explained.

“Thank you,” he said, although he didn’t. 

“You seem quite unhappy.”

“I am.” 

“Well,” she said, “if it’s anything you’d like to talk about….”

“I wouldn’t. But thank you.”

“All right.” She left him alone. 

He’d nibbled at the crumble a bit—he ended up eating most of the topping; that was always the best part anyway—and was considering looking for something to iron when Mrs. Hughes came back. “His lordship’s just rung.”

“Oh. I guess I’d better go up.”

She hesitated. “Yes, I think you should.”

He realized why she’d hesitated when he started up the stairs. Bates had gotten a considerable head start, but it didn’t take Thomas long to catch up with him. 

“I thought you were sulking,” Bates said.

“According to Mr. Carson, you’re starting work tomorrow,” he said. “That means I still have a job to do.”

“I can do it.”

“He’ll be expecting _me_ ,” Thomas answered. 

His lordship would probably be absolutely thrilled to have Bates instead, but that was too bad for him. He’d said he would keep doing his job until he was told to stop, and that was precisely what he’d do.

Once Thomas had overtaken him, Bates put in a real effort and managed to make it to the dressing room not more than a minute or two after him. Then he proceeded to stand there and watch while Thomas undressed his lordship. Thomas had no idea what he thought he was doing, unless he expected Thomas to make some sort of improper advance, from which Saint Bates could heroically rescue his lordship. 

What his lordship thought of it, Thomas had no idea. No one said much. Once he was in his dressing gown, his lordship did say, “So, Bates. I’ll see you on duty tomorrow.”

Perhaps he wanted to be sure he wasn’t getting both of them again. 

“Good night, Barrow,” his lordship continued. “You do know I wish you every good fortune.”

Not enough to ask him to stay, or even ask why he was leaving when he obviously didn’t want to. “I believe so. Thank you, my lord.”

He went through to the bedroom. Thomas set about tidying up the dressing room—he wasn’t about to be accused of leaving things in disarray, even if Bates was just standing there like a great idiot. 

It wasn’t long, though, before he became uncomfortable with the way Bates was staring at him. It had been strange enough when his lordship was there. “To the victor, the spoils,” Thomas said. He’d hoped to sound a bit ironic, to underscore how little it was that Bates had won: he got to help a man get dressed twice a day. Big deal. 

But he didn’t really pull it off. Not even close, if he was being honest.

“What will you do?” Bates asked.

A pretense of sympathy from him was the very last thing Thomas could stand. “Oh, what’s it to you?”

“You’re right,” Bates said. “It’s nothing to me.”

“I know I’m right. You’re perfectly pleased with how everything’s turned out, aren’t you?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Thomas shook his head, and started for the door. “You can finish here, as you’re so keen on it.”

#

“It seems we’re likely to lose Barrow before the match after all,” Robert said, pulling back the covers and slipping into bed next to Cora.

She looked up from her book. “The world doesn’t revolve around your cricket match, you know. You can’t expect him to stay here just to play some silly game, if he’s found another place.”

“That’s just it,” Robert said. “He hasn’t. He says he hasn’t. And I’d thought he wanted to stay on.”

“A week ago you didn’t want him to stay on,” Cora reminded him.

“I decided you were right,” he answered. Those were magic words, with wives. “It wasn’t fair to just sack him. I told him he could stay if he liked, and he seemed happy enough about it. Then he turns around and says he’s leaving.”

“It is his decision,” Cora said. 

“Of course it is, but I get the sense he doesn’t truly _want_ to leave. That he’s been forced into it somehow. And it isn’t just the match,” Robert added. “Sybil liked him. They got to know each other during the war, apparently, and…well.” He swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. 

If Sybil were here, she’d tell him he ought to get to the bottom of it and find out if Thomas was being treated unfairly. He’d tell her it was no concern of hers, and that if Carson—or anyone—was trying to get rid of him, there was probably a good reason. Then she’d say something maddening, and in the end, he’d do what she wanted, even if he didn’t really understand why. 

He went on, “Perhaps you could ask O’Brien. I’m sure she’d know, if there were anything amiss.”

Cora nodded. “Of course. I’ll ask her.” 

#

Thomas faced the morning with a plan. He’d write more letters, casting a wider net and impressing the urgency of the situation on the people he’d already written. When he took them into the village to mail them, he’d pick up any papers the house didn’t already get, to check the positions vacant advertisements. One of his correspondents had suggested a London employment agency, so he’d write them, as well. And perhaps he’d ask Mrs. Hughes to help him write up a “situation wanted” advertisement of his own. Carson probably talked with her about hiring, so she’d know what sorts of things sounded good. 

But he’d barely started on the plan when Carson summoned him to his pantry again. He wasn’t too worried at first—it might have something to do with the cricket match, for instance, and Carson’s opinion on whether he should stay for it or not. But when Carson shut the door firmly behind him and sat behind his desk without a word, Thomas began to suspect it wasn’t just that. 

“James came to speak to me last night,” he finally said. 

What could he possibly have said? Carson already knew what had happened. 

“He is not satisfied with the way I’ve chosen to resolve the situation.”

“I don’t understand,” Thomas said. It couldn’t be that Jimmy was unhappy he’d been sacked. He wanted Thomas to leave him alone; well, he was about to be as left-alone as he could possibly be. 

“James,” Carson said, “does not think it appropriate for you to leave with a good character. He indicated that he would make a report to the police if the situation was not handled to his satisfaction.”

It took Thomas a moment to understand what he was saying. “I’m to leave with no reference? After working here for ten years?”

“I’m afraid my hands are tied.” 

Not nearly as tied as his were. Thomas shook his head, trying not to cry, not in front of _Carson_. “I’ll never get a job now, Mr. Carson.” All of his plans were based on that “perfectly acceptable reference” Carson had referred to. “Does his lordship know about this?” “Wishing him every good fortune” didn’t go very far, if he did. _He could tell Jimmy that if he involved the police, he’d be the one getting sacked._

“No.” 

“Then I’m gonna tell him.” It couldn’t possibly hurt, at this point.

“And how would you do that without telling him the rest of it?”

He didn’t already know the rest of it? Thomas thought someone would have told him. But if he didn’t…Carson was right; he couldn’t tell him. He took several deep breaths, trying to get a hold of himself. He couldn’t believe Jimmy would do this to him. Really. Couldn’t. “This wasn’t Jimmy’s idea,” he said. “Someone’s put him up to it. He wouldn’t be so unkind. Not left to himself.” Thomas had a fair idea who’d put him up to it, too. Damn it, he’d _told_ Jimmy not to listen to her. 

“I’m almost touched that you would defend him under such circumstances, but there it is.”

He couldn’t argue the point any further without actually crying, and even after everything that had happened, he was too proud for that. He had to sort out what do to next.

There was absolutely _nothing_ to do next. He sniffed and said, “Well, can I stay here for a day or two while I—” He choked back a sob. “Come up with some sort of plan?” He hated asking Carson for anything. But he really didn’t know where he’d go.

After a long moment of consideration, Carson nodded. “Yes, I think I can allow that. But that’s the best I can do.”

Thomas nodded. He was going to cry, he absolutely was, and he had to find somewhere else to be before it happened. He managed to say, “Thank you, Mr. Carson,” in a voice that was little more than a whisper, and left for the sanctuary of the pressing room.

He didn’t stay there long—by now, everyone would know that was where he’d been hiding lately, and it was possible someone might want to press something. He just took a few minutes to collect himself, then escaped up to his room. 

His room for the next day or two. His room for most of his adult life. He sat heavily on the bed, put his head in his hands, and wept until he couldn’t anymore.

By the time he stopped, his head throbbed and he’d run through three handkerchiefs. Mechanically, he got up and washed his face. He had some tablets somewhere that he’d got for when his hand ached in the cold. He found the tin in the washstand drawer. 

Only eight of them left. Not enough. Probably not, anyway. He took two, and lay down with a damp flannel over his red, aching eyes.

When he woke, it was dark, and he was light-headed and nauseous. He checked his watch—nearly time for supper downstairs. The idea of eating repelled him almost as much as the idea of going down _there_ , but he knew he’d only feel worse if he didn’t manage to eat something. And there wasn’t much chance of getting anything if he didn’t turn up at table with everyone else—no one was going to go bringing _him_ trays. 

Pulling himself together as best he could, he went down. Supper was being laid, and he took his place down with the hall boys, doing his best to ignore the murderous looks Jimmy was casting in his direction. He spoke to no one, and no one spoke to him—although at one point, Alfred asked, “What’s _he_ doing here?” 

“Having his dinner, I expect,” Mrs. Hughes told him. 

“I thought he was leaving.”

“And he hasn’t left yet.”

After that, no one spoke about him, either. 

He left the table as soon as the dishes were cleared, but after being in his room all day, he couldn’t quite face it again. He went outside, thinking he might have a smoke, but it was pouring rain. He’d learned a trick for smoking in the wet when he was in France, but it turned out he couldn’t make it work with a cloth cap instead of a tin one. 

Now that he was out there, though, he also couldn’t face going back in, so he stayed out, getting soaked to the skin and thinking that, at least, it might not be quite so obvious he was crying, with all this rain. He was dreadfully tired, even though he’d slept all day. It would have been nice to sit down, but if he decided to go on living, he’d regret ruining his good trousers, so he crouched instead, huddling against the kitchen wall for what protection it could offer against the rain.

The kitchen door opened, and he shrank back further into the shadows, hoping he wouldn’t be seen. He might not have been if it were just Daisy or Ivy throwing out the scraps, as he’d expected, but it was Mrs. Hughes. “Mr. Barrow?” she called.

He struggled to his feet—he suspected he’d present a pathetic spectacle either way, but he’d hold on to what dignity he had left.

“What in heaven’s name are you doing out here?”

Hiding, of course. In retrospect, the pressing room would have been a better choice. He reached for his cigarettes, as if to suggest a reason for his whereabouts.

“I know you’re leaving,” she said, coming over to him. “But things can’t be as black as all that. You’re trained now. You can apply for a position as a butler.”

Hah. “You don’t know everything, then.” Maybe Carson had convinced the others to keep it a secret from the women. That wouldn’t have stopped O’Brien, but maybe she had her own reasons for not spreading the story of his disgrace. 

“Then will you tell me everything?” she asked. 

Carson wouldn’t like it if he did. And she had been so kind. She wouldn’t be, if she knew, would she? “I’m afraid if I do, Mrs. Hughes, that it will shock and disgust you.”

She actually smiled at that. “Shock and disgust? My, my, I think I have to hear it now,” she said. Then she put her arm around him and ushered him inside, into her parlour where she sat him down by the fire with a towel, and bustled about fixing tea while he dried off and thawed out. 

He wanted to lie—to say something that would let him keep this moment, where he was being taken care of, like he wasn’t _something foul_. But he was too tired to think up a convincing story—something that he might think would shock and disgust her, but that really wouldn’t. Instead, when she handed him a cup of hot, sweet tea and sat down across from him, an expectant look on her face, he wrapped his hands around the warmth and said, “I’m not…like other men.”

He waited for the expected look of disgust and shock to pass over her face, as she realized what he meant. She waited, impassive and patient as a shepherd in a nativity painting. “Maybe you noticed, I’ve taken a bit of an interest in Jimmy. James,” he corrected himself.

“I know who you mean,” she said gently. “And yes, I’d noticed.”

“Well, it’s not….” He didn’t know what to say. He’d never actually _told_ anyone before. Been found out, yes. Made vague hints about being “different,” a few times. More often, he’d made his feelings clear with a gesture, which in his experience had worked more often than it hadn’t. But he’d never even hinted about the subject to a woman before—why would he? “It’s not a normal sort of interest,” he said in a rush. “I’m…drawn to him. And he’s not the first. Not the first man I’ve felt that way about. And I don’t feel that way about girls. Ever. I’ve tried, but I’m just not interested.” He couldn’t possibly make it any clearer than that, he thought, and he really ought to have finished his tea before he said it. Maybe he would take the cup with him when she threw him out.

But she just said, “I see.” 

Well, like he told Mr. Carson, it isn’t against the law to hope. Maybe she realized that, even though Mr. Carson didn’t seem to think much of the distinction. He went on, “So the other night, I went into his room and kissed him. While he was sleeping. He didn’t—after he woke up he said he’d punch me if I didn’t get out. I thought he was interested. I…misunderstood.” Even after all that happened, he didn’t want to leave Mrs. Hughes thinking that Jimmy was like him. Jimmy didn’t deserve that. 

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Mrs. Hughes said. Her tone was mild, but Thomas braced himself to hear about how it went against the laws of God and man. “No one is at his best when woken unexpectedly in the middle of the night.”

“What?” Thomas said dully. Of all the things to criticize about his behavior, the _timing_ seemed the least important.

“Well, if he _had_ been interested, he’d have missed your first kiss, being asleep when it happened,” she said, very reasonably. “And, as he wasn’t interested, if he was awake he’d have had time to warn you off before there needed to be any talk of punching anyone.”

“I didn’t think of it that way,” he said cautiously, testing this newly-shifted ground underneath his feet. “I had just—nerved myself up to do it, and then he was asleep, so….” He shook his head.

“You should have thought,” Mrs. Hughes said. “More tea? How would you like it if someone kissed you while you were sleeping?”

Holding out his cup, Thomas muttered, “If it was Jimmy, I wouldn’t mind,” feeling just a little shocked at his own daring, saying a thing like that out loud.

Mrs. Hughes didn’t bat an eye at the admission, but asked as she poured, “What if it were, say, Daisy?” 

He gulped. “Er….”

“I remember a time when _she_ had reason to think you were interested.” 

Now Thomas was almost as shocked as he’d expected Mrs. Hughes to be, at the idea that there was any comparison to be made between the sort of longings he had and a kitchen maid mooning about. He’d often thought that it would be a lovely sort of world if men like him could simply go about their business, falling in love and flirting and courting the same as anyone else. But somehow, he’d never really thought about how even in a world like that, he still couldn’t just do whatever he liked. The others could let it be known they were interested in each other—the whole tangle of Jimmy and Ivy and Alfred and Daisy, for instance. They wouldn’t have Mr. Carson telling them they ought to be horsewhipped for _hoping_ , but they weren’t exactly free to do whatever they liked, either. 

After exploring this unfamiliar corridor of thought for a moment, Thomas said, “You’d have sacked her for being on the men’s side in the first place.” 

“I may well have done,” she agreed. “Or I may simply have told her she’d been a very foolish girl and ought to know better, and as long as she’d learnt her lesson, we’d say no more about it.” 

Perhaps in deference to his status as valet, Mrs. Hughes didn’t complete the thought, but she didn’t have to. Thomas had thought there were only two ways of seeing what he had done: either he was a vicious degenerate, a corrupting influence, foul and revolting—or he was a blameless victim of society’s prejudices. _Foolish boy who ought to know better_ was…not exactly flattering, particularly with the comparison to Daisy. But it made a change from _dangerous pervert_. 

Mrs. Hughes went on, “Is that what has you so distraught? Being disappointed in love?”

Another little shock, having what he felt referred to as _love_ and not as something uglier. “No. If only that were all it is. Jimmy—I think Jimmy would have kept his mouth shut about it. But Alfred saw…most of it. He came in just as Jimmy woke up. I don’t know why. And he told Mr. Carson. Mr. Carson thought it best that I resign…he said I could use Mr. Bates’s return as an excuse.”

“And you don’t want to leave? It might be the best thing, after all. To make a fresh start.”

“No, that’s not all. I mean, I don’t particularly want to leave, but I can’t make a fresh start, because now Jimmy’s told Mr. Carson that unless I’m let go without a reference, he’ll notify the police.” Now, if she wasn’t going to be disgusted, she’d probably pity him. He wasn’t sure if he liked that any better. 

But Mrs. Hughes just said, “My, that does seem like an overreaction.” Sipping her tea, she went on, “There isn’t a woman alive who hasn’t been kissed at least once by a man she’d rather hadn’t. If we all went crying for the police every time it happened, they’d never have time for anything else.” 

The thought of Mrs. Hughes being kissed—willingly or not—was almost enough to distract Thomas from his troubles. Then he wondered about O’Brien, and Mrs. Patmore, for that matter. Pushing those mental pictures aside, he mumbled something about how he supposed they wouldn’t. 

“But surely Mr. Carson didn’t agree,” she went on. “If nothing else, he can’t allow a footman to dictate to him.”

“Oh, he agreed,” Thomas said hollowly. “He has some sympathy for how ‘nature has twisted me into something foul,’ but not enough to make a point about it.” He glanced up at her, over the rim of his cup. “That’s what he said I was, something foul. And revolting. I don’t think I’m something foul. I know I’m supposed to, but I don’t.” He said it defiantly, but it was only half-true. He didn’t want to think so. He could tell himself that if, for instance, God was against it, God had no one but Himself to blame for making him that way. But he wasn’t quite so arrogant that he could believe, really be absolutely sure deep in his heart, that he was right about this, and everyone else was wrong. 

Mrs. Hughes wasn’t answering, and maybe he’d gone too far. Maybe she could manage him being the way he was, but saying that he didn’t think it was _bad_ was just too much. He said quickly, “Anyway, that’s not important. I’m being chucked out without a reference, after ten years. I’m ruined. I’ll never get another place in service—and I’m a little bit too old to go like Ethel did. It’s mostly lads under twenty who are successful in that line.” 

“There’s no need for vulgarity, Mr. Barrow,” she said sharply. 

He almost laughed, but a glance at her face suggested that she was completely serious. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hughes,” he said contritely. 

“All right,” she said, and softened. “I certainly don’t think you’re foul.” 

“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for saying that. It’s just—I’ve no idea what I’m going to do. Mr. Carson said I can stay for a day or two, but after that…I just don’t know.” 

“I’m glad Mr. Carson at least has enough kindness in him not to cast you out into the rain,” she said, with a slight shake of her head. 

Thomas nodded. He hated having to feel grateful to Carson, but there it was. He could have thrown Thomas out the moment he heard what he’d done. 

“You haven’t any family to go back to, until you find a new place?” she went on.

He shook his head. “No. My parents are gone, and my sister…she does think I’m foul. Doesn’t want me near her kids.” She might send him a little money, if he was starving and wrote to hint that he just might turn up on her doorstep if she didn’t leave him any choice. But she’d never let him stay there, no matter what he said, and he wouldn’t be able to pry enough brass out of her to make a real difference. 

“Well, that’s a crying shame. Family ought to be the ones we can trust to stick by us, no matter what happens.”

“Maybe,” he said. “Some people have families like that.” He returned to the point. “So I have a day or two to sort out what I’m going to do, but all I’ve thought of so far is going out into the wood and sitting on the ground until I freeze to death.” Not that he’d really freeze to death, this time of year. He didn’t mention the pills; that would sound entirely too serious.

Now Mrs. Hughes _did_ look shocked. “You mustn’t do that.”

“I don’t think I will,” he said. It would take more courage, in a way, than he had. “But I haven’t had a better idea yet.”

“You might begin by taking a room at a pub,” she suggested sensibly. “You’ll have some wages coming to you, at least.”

“And I’ll run through it like that,” Thomas said, snapping his fingers. 

“So you’ll have to find a new job faster than that,” she answered, copying the gesture. “For a man, there are other lines of work beyond service and--” She hesitated only slightly, “—prostitution.”

“That I can get into with no training and no reference? Name one.” He knew he oughtn’t to bark at her, when she was trying to be kind. But he resented her trying to cheer him up; it wasn’t that easy.

“Well.” She thought for a moment. “Factories, I’ve heard, aren’t terribly particular about references. I can’t say as it would suit you, but it’s better than freezing to death.”

Barely, Thomas thought, with an inward shudder. 

After pouring the last of the tea from the pot into his cup, Mrs. Hughes said, “I can’t agree with sending you away without a reference. It would be one thing if you’d only just got here and had an old character you could use, or if you were a young man who could pretend to be looking for his first place. But you’ve spent your whole career at Downton—you’ve practically grown up here.”

“I know,” Thomas said. God, he knew. “Somehow, nobody’s particularly interested in my opinion on the matter,” he said into the empty depths of his teacup. 

“Well, they might be interested in mine,” Mrs. Hughes said. 

He looked up. 

“I’ll speak to Mr. Carson,” she said. “And to Jimmy, if necessary. There must be something that can be done. Perhaps—well, no, Mr. Carson would never agree to that,” she said, as if to herself. “But something.”

“Thank you,” Thomas said. He didn’t think there was—he’d thought about the matter backwards and forwards. But it was kind of her to say she’d try. 

He wondered if she’d heard him, that awful night when Lady Sybil died, saying how not many people were ever kind to him. He thought maybe she had, because as she stood up and collected his teacup, she said, “We all need someone to be kind to us now and then, Mr. Barrow. Now, if I were you, I’d try to get a bit of sleep; you might see things more clearly in the morning.”

He stood. “Good night, Mrs. Hughes.”

“Good night, Mr. Barrow.”

The next day dawned clear, if a little overcast. Thoroughly sick of the walls of his own room, Thomas made his way down to the village. Mrs. Hughes’s reaction had been…heartening, really. That she could know, and not look down on him, and want to _help_ was nothing short of astonishing. 

He still didn’t have any good ideas about what to _do_ , of course. He went to the library and looked at more “positions vacant” announcements, this time examining the ones for positions outside of service. It was surprising, how many different things there were for a person to do. But there certainly weren’t many that didn’t require experience or references, and the ones that did exist sounded quite dodgy. 

Leaving the library, he wandered through the village, running into Ethel near the greengrocer’s. “Mrs. Parks,” he said, nodding to her.

“I’m not a Missus,” she said, looking at him sharply. 

“You’re a housekeeper, I thought,” he answered. They were all called Mrs., whether they were or not. 

She smiled, or winced, it was hard to tell. “Mrs. Crawley calls me Ethel. And I thought you up at the house weren’t supposed to speak to me.”

“I’m leaving, so that doesn’t matter,” he answered. 

“Mr. Carson will put it in your character. ‘Consorts with fallen women.’” 

“He can’t,” Thomas answered. “I’m not getting one.” He considered for a moment. “How’d you manage getting your job, without a reference?”

“Mrs. Crawley offered it to me. She takes an interest in helping…women who have had to do what I did.”

“Hm,” he said. “Wonder how she feels about….”

“About what?”

“Never mind.” He couldn’t say it in the middle of a public street. And nor could he go to Mrs. Crawley and say, _I understand you like helping prostitutes. Have you ever considered hiring a sodomite?_ Even if she even knew what it was, just because she felt sorry for prostitutes didn’t mean she’d accept the likes of him. 

“I should be going,” Ethel said. 

“Oh. Yes, of course. Good afternoon, Mrs. Parks.”

She smiled—a bit more genuinely this time—and turned to go. Then she turned back. “You could come and have a cup of tea in the kitchen. If you really don’t mind what Mr. Carson will say.”

He hesitated. A cup of tea did sound nice right about now. “If you don’t think Mrs. Crawley will mind.”

She gave him not only a cup of tea, but a slice of Battenburg cake. “I’m still working on my baking,” she explained. “You’ll have to tell me if you think this is ready to serve to Mrs. Crawley.”

“It’s good,” he said, sampling it. It was the first thing he’d eaten in days that tasted good, as a matter of fact. 

She smiled. “Mrs. Crawley says my cooking is coming along well, but I wonder sometimes if she’s just being kind.”

“Well, everyone knows I’m never kind.”

#

“James,” Elsie said. “Could you come into my sitting room for a moment?”

“Of course, Mrs. Hughes,” he said. As he should; he was doing nothing more important than playing Patience at the servants’ hall table. 

Once they were in her sitting room, with the door closed, she said, “What’s this I hear about your asking Mr. Carson to refuse Mr. Barrow a reference?”

A cold look came over James’s face. “Do you know about what he did?”

She nodded. “I do.”

“Then you know it’s wrong, disgusting, and against the law.”

“I don’t know if I’d go as far as to say __disgusting,” she said.

“Well, I would. I wouldn’t want to work in a house that would shelter someone like that.”

“He’s leaving, in any case, so you won’t have to.”

“And then he goes on and does the same thing—or something worse—at his next place?”

“He seems to have learnt his lesson,” she suggested. “And surely it’s for Mr. Carson to decide about his reference.”

“And it’s for me to decide if I go to the police,” he answered. “All I’ve done is say that if Mr. Carson handles the matter appropriately, I won’t—for the sake of the house. But if he lets that— _person_ —go off without a stain on his character, I shall have to speak my mind, even if it means a scandal.”

What a sanctimonious little prig he was. She tried another tack. “Have you never made a mistake, James?”

“There’s nothing alike between him and me. Nothing.” James shook his head furiously. “I don’t have to listen to this, Mrs. Hughes. I’m sorry, but I don’t.” He stormed out.

So much for trying to get James to see reason. She’d have to try Mr. Carson next.

#

Thomas returned to the house for supper, and afterwards went for a walk. His steps took him in the direction of Bates’s cottage, and he stood in the shadows, smoking and looking in at the warmly-lit windows. 

It just wasn’t right, that Bates got _everything_. His job, a home of his own, a wife, while he got nothing. When Bates came outside, Thomas stood stock still, hoping not to be seen.

His usual luck held. Bates noticed him.

Thomas stepped out of the shadows, taking a drag on his cigarette for courage. “Inspecting the love nest?” he asked.

Approaching, he said, “I was fetching some coal,” as though Thomas actually cared what he was doing.

“I envy you,” Thomas said. More honesty. 

“What are you saying?” Bates asked.

“No, I mean it. The happy couple and everyone so pleased for you.” Even if Jimmy had responded as he’d hoped, he’d never have that. He was getting what sympathy he was because he was _unhappy_. If he and Jimmy—if it had actually happened, he wouldn’t even be getting that. He made a sweeping gesture with his cigarette—he’d always tried to keep his hands still before, so as not to look like a nance, but that hardly mattered now. “Can’t imagine what that’s like.”

“Perhaps you should try being nicer.”

He’d like that, wouldn’t he? “It’s being nice that got me into trouble,” he pointed out. 

“What do you mean?” Bates asked.

He really didn’t know, Thomas realized. The story was in even more limited circulation than he’d thought. “Never mind. I’ll be gone soon. And out of your hair. You’ll be glad of that.”

Bates didn’t try to deny it. It probably would have made Thomas even angrier if he had. “Yes, I will be.”

Thomas looked at him for a long moment. He could tell Bates what he really thought of him now—no point hiding it. 

But, he realized, he already had. He envied him. That was everything there was to it; there wasn’t really anything about Bates himself that he particularly disliked. He dropped his cigarette, stamped it out, and left.

When he returned to the house, Mrs. Hughes asked him into her sitting room. “I’m afraid I haven’t made much progress,” she said. “James is being very stubborn, and Mr. Carson and I haven’t been able to find another way out of the situation.”

“I understand,” Thomas said. That was what he expected, really. 

“Have you thought of anything new, yourself?”

He shook his head. Ethel had said, while they were having tea, that Mrs. Crawley thought it might be best for her to go someplace where no one knew her. Of course, she had a character to take with her. “No. I…leaving the country might be best.” He could forge a character, then. He wouldn’t dare try that in England, where it would be so easy to check, but somewhere far, far away, he might be able to get away with it. 

“That’s an idea,” she said. 

“Passage might be more than I have. I haven’t checked.” 

“If you’re only a _bit_ short, I could help, and you could pay me back once you’ve found your feet,” she suggested. 

“Really? That’s…that’s generous of you.”

“We can’t have you leave here without any options at all.” She glanced away. “I understand there are some countries where this…sort of thing is not against the law. You might be happier in one of those.”

Which ones were those, he wondered? “‘Happy’ seems like a tall order,” he said. “But yes. That would be…one thing I wouldn’t have to worry about.”

“I’ll keep thinking about it,” she said. 

“Thank you,” he said. He seemed to be saying that to her a lot. “For…well. Everything.”

“I haven’t been able to do much.”

“It helps to know someone’s trying,” he admitted. He didn’t know why that would help. But it did. 

The next day after lunch, Mr. Carson went over the list for the cricket match. They were one short, even with all the able-bodied males playing, down to the hall boys. 

He wondered if his lordship would still let him stay through the match. If Jimmy would tolerate it. If he could manage to keep his mind on _cricket_ when his life was in ruins. 

He didn’t ask, but Ivy did. 

“I expect I’ll be gone by then,” he answered, hoping someone would say otherwise.

“Yes,” Jimmy said. “You will.”

That answered that question. 

“You really won’t be staying for the match?” Molesley asked him as the group broke up.

No one had told him, either, apparently. “I doubt it,” he said. It was already the second of the “day or two” Carson had granted him. 

“But you haven’t found a place yet, have you? And it’s less than a week.”

“No, but…I shouldn’t be hanging about when I’m not working here anymore.”

“The team could use you,” Molesley said. “I’ll do my best, of course, but it’s always helpful to have another strong player.”

“It’s not really my decision.” 

“Well, but, his lordship cares a great deal about the match.”

“He does,” Thomas agreed. 

It was something. He went to talk to Mr. Carson. 

“Yes, Mr. Barrow?” he said when Thomas knocked.

“I, ah, haven’t quite sorted out where I’m going next,” he said. 

“I suspected you hadn’t.” He paused and steepled his fingers. “I expect you know Mrs. Hughes has taken an interest in your situation.”

“She’s been very kind,” Thomas said. 

“I don’t particularly enjoy giving in to blackmail, either, no matter what I feel about your…conduct. But telling him to publish and be damned would have severe consequences for you.”

“Yes. I know.” 

“I do not myself believe that he is bluffing, but I’ll leave the decision to you, if you would like to risk calling him on it.”

“I….” Thomas couldn’t believe that Jimmy really would. But he’d said he would. And Thomas had been very, very wrong about Jimmy before. “I’d have to think about it, Mr. Carson. I expect you’re right.”

“I do not think it advisable,” Carson agreed. 

Thomas pushed the thought aside. “I actually…his lordship said, earlier, that he’d like me to stay for the cricket if I could. And I wondered if…since I’ve no plans….”

“I cannot imagine you are terribly interested in cricket at a time like this.”

“No, but I’m even less interested in starving in the street,” Thomas answered. 

Carson considered. “If James doesn’t raise a fuss, perhaps you could stay a bit longer on that excuse.”

Thomas nodded. Of course it all came down to Jimmy. 

#

“…at least Thomas is staying for the match,” Robert said. “With Mr. Branson being so stubborn, we’d be two men short if he wasn’t.”

Bates paused in the act of putting in one of his cufflinks. “He’s staying?”

“Through the match, I thought,” Robert answered. Carson had said there were seven players from downstairs, and without Thomas, they only had six. 

“I’d…heard otherwise, my lord,” Bates said, finally getting the link in. 

Robert frowned. “I’ll have to ask Carson.”

“What’s happened, with Thomas?” Bates asked, focusing intently on the other cufflink.

“Happened? What do you mean?” Cora had reported back to him that, according to O’Brien, Thomas was too proud to accept a lesser position in the house, so he was looking for another place as a valet. It sounded perfectly consistent with Thomas’s character.

“I’d thought he was sulking over not being valet anymore, but if that’s all it is, he’s carrying it a bit far, my lord. And he’s been…different. I get the sense something happened.”

“Different how?”

Bates considered. “Quiet. Ordinarily when he’s got a grievance, he likes an audience. He’s been…skulking about like a whipped dog. It’s unsettling, coming from him.”

Robert supposed it would be. “If anything has happened, it’s been kept from me.” That, _he_ found unsettling. 

“I’ll see what I can find out, my lord.”

#

Thomas was getting thoroughly sick of hiding in his room, but whenever he emerged, somebody or other wanted to ask him what was happening. First Bates—who, reminded that Thomas’s plans were nothing to him, said some nonsense about his lordship wanting to know if he was staying for the cricket match—and then Daisy.

“Is it true you’re being sent away without a reference?”

“Yes,” he said. “Now can I have some tea, or not?”

“Hold your horses,” she said. “Why? What have you done that’s so wrong? And why are they letting you hang about?”

“Mr. Carson wouldn’t like me saying,” he answered. “Nor Mrs. Patmore.”

“If they’re already sacking you without a reference, it doesn’t matter what they like, does it?” she asked. “What more can they do?”

She had a point. And they were alone in the kitchen—she was working on some complicated pudding for upstairs, in the lull before they started on tea. “Kill me, maybe,” he said. “I was caught—kissing somebody.” 

Daisy gave him a skeptical look. “It must have been more than kissing if you got sacked for it.”

“What do you know about more than kissing?”

“Mrs. Patmore told me. When I got married. All about the facts of life.”

Thomas suspected she’d left a few things out. “It wasn’t more than kissing, as a matter of fact,” he answered. “It was more—who it was I kissed. And that the other person didn’t like it.”

Whisking egg whites with a serious expression, Daisy hazarded, “Lady Edith?”

“No!” 

“Lady _Mary_?”

“No. It wasn’t a lady at all,” he hinted.

She set down the bowl. “Ethel?”

“ _Jimmy_ ,” Thomas said, between clenched teeth. 

“But—he’s a man,” Daisy said. 

“I realize that.”

“What do you want to kiss another man for?”

“I just do.” 

“But why? There’s no point to it, is there? You can’t marry or…anything.”

“Not marry, no. And if I go into any more detail, Mr. Carson _will_ kill me.”

“But I don’t see why you’re getting sacked, then.” She picked up the bowl and resumed stirring. “If that’s _really_ all it was.”

“It was,” Thomas said. “Jimmy’s…very angry. About it. He’s not…not that sort. The sort that likes kissing other blokes. I mean, suppose, I don’t know. Ivy came up and kissed you.”

Daisy grimaced. “I’d ask her what she wanted to do that for. But I don’t suppose I’d get Mrs. Patmore to sack her.”

“Well, then, you’re a kinder person than Jimmy. Congratulations.” 

#

John knocked on Thomas’s door. He’d checked his other haunts, and found nothing; Mrs. Hughes had suggested he might be hiding up here.

“What?” said a dull, muffled voice from inside the room.

John opened the door. Thomas had been stretched out on the bed—staring at the ceiling, it looked like—but he’d started to sit up. He was in his shirtsleeves. Not his valet’s suit; he’d given up wearing that a few days before. 

“What do you want?” Thomas said. John would have expected him to spit it out as a challenge, but instead he barely seemed interested in the answer.

“I’ve found out about what’s been happening. With James.”

“Good for you.” 

“I don’t like it,” John said. “And neither does his lordship.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to. I’m leaving, without a reference. What more do you want? You going to bring in the police?”

“No.” He didn’t understand, John realized. “I meant, we don’t like what James is doing.” He hesitated. “You realize everyone’s known about you for _years_.”

Apparently, he hadn’t. “They never.” 

“Not the younger staff,” John amended. “Or the ladies. At least I don’t think so. But his lordship did, and me, and Mr. Carson, Mrs. Hughes, and Mrs. Patmore—she was the one who told me, in fact, when I first came. And nobody minded.”

“Hah,” Thomas said.

“You’re not well-liked because you’re nasty to everyone. Not because of that. And apparently you’ve been nearly bearable to be around since I’ve been away, so no one’s particularly happy to see you tarred and feathered. Not even me,” John admitted. 

Thomas swallowed hard, staring at his folded hands. “Prison’s changed you. There was a time when nothing was too bad for me as far as you were concerned.”

There, Thomas was wrong. Before, John would have been perfectly happy to see him taken down a peg or two, but he’d tried to think about him as little as possible either way. It was Thomas who had cherished the idea of a feud between them. “Prison has changed me,” he agreed. “You do know Miss O’Brien is behind it?”

“I knew someone was,” Thomas said, without much interest. “Jimmy’d never think of it for himself.”

“Doesn’t it bother you that she’ll get away with it?” 

“Not really,” Thomas said. 

“Without a reference? After ten years here? You’ll never work again.” By God, Thomas had tried to paint him as a thief for getting a job Thomas had wanted; now he had a legitimate grievance, and he was just lying down and _taking_ it?

“Not in England.” Thomas said. But elsewhere, maybe. I’ve a cousin in Bombay.” He spoke very quietly, as if to himself. “Might go there. I like the sun.”

He’d been to India, in the Army. It would eat Thomas Barrow alive. “There must be something you know about Miss O’Brien that you can use against her.” With all the scheming they’d done, there had to be. 

“You’ve heard the phrase, to know when you’re beaten? Well, I’m beaten, Mr. Bates. I’m well and truly beaten.” 

If he’d thought Thomas was making a play for sympathy, John would have left him to it. But he sounded genuinely defeated. Broken. “Then give me the weapon, and I’ll do the work. What can I say that will make her change her mind?”

Thomas stared up at him. 

“Even if it means ‘fessing up to something you helped her with, things can hardly get worse for you,” John added. “You might as well take her down with you.” He thought Thomas would like that idea.

“There is one thing,” Thomas said slowly. 

“What is it?”

“You could tell her…tell her you know about her ladyship’s soap.”

“What?” What could that possibly mean?

“She’ll know what it means.”

“All right,” John said. “I’ll get her alone somehow, and we’ll see if that works.”

“It will. But.”

“What?”

“I don’t understand why you’d want to help me.”

“For one thing, I’m not a small, petty, vindictive little worm who enjoys seeing other people suffer. You might try it sometime.”

“Oh.” 

“And for another, she’s worse than you are. I know she was the one who kicked my cane out from under me that time.”

Thomas actually smiled at that, and John thought it very likely he was smiling at the memory of seeing John going face-down in the gravel. He schooled his features quickly. “She did. That was very unkind of her.”

“Yes. Well. In return for helping you, I’ll expect you to find a better sort of friends at your next place.”

#

Thomas went down a little before supper into a world in which absolutely everything he knew had changed. 

They knew. They knew, and they hadn’t hated him—or not for that, at least. All his life, he’d been afraid of what would happen if anyone found out. Had thought that anyone who asked him about himself was prying after his secret. But they’d known.

Mrs. Hughes had known, even before he told her. But she hadn’t even laughed at him for being afraid to tell her something that was, apparently, so bloody obvious to everyone. 

And Bates. Bates was helping him. Thomas had considered the possibility that he was just looking to make even more trouble for him, of course. But he seemed sincere. And he’d always fancied himself a champion of the downtrodden. 

Apparently that included even him. 

The world was—there was no other way to put it—a kinder place than he’d thought it was. 

“Mr. Barrow,” Carson said, when he saw him in the passage. “A word, before we sit down.”

Mrs. Hughes was already in the pantry when he got there. Smiling.

“You’ll be pleased—but I think not particularly surprised—to learn that James has changed his tune. You will be given a reference after all.”

He nodded. “I, ah. Yes. I appreciate it, Mr. Carson. And Mrs. Hughes.”

They beamed at him like proud parents. Or at least, Mrs. Hughes beamed, and Carson looked only mildly disgruntled. 

“Let’s go in to supper, then,” Mrs. Hughes said. “I expect you’ll have a bit more of an appetite tonight, Mr. Barrow.”

He did. He was also quite satisfied to see Miss O’Brien looking considerably less pleased with herself than she had in ages. Even if it was petty and vindictive of him.

#

“The situation with Thomas has been straightened out,” Bates reported as he helped Robert out of his dinner clothes. “We brought a little pressure to bear on Miss O’Brien, and James came right around. And Thomas even seems to have the sense to be grateful, so perhaps the entire episode will end up being good for him, in the long run.”

“Well, I’m glad that’s settled,” Robert said. Although really, they were only back to where they had been at the beginning of the week. “But I suppose Barrow will have to go.” 

“My lord?”

“He’s so good at cricket,” Robert explained. He didn’t want to raise the specter of Sybil, not now. “I know we were soundly beaten last year, but he did get most of our runs.”

“I thought we just wanted him to have a reference, so that he could find work when he leaves,” Bates said.

Robert was just a tiny bit annoyed about that _we_. Barrow’s greater formality had been grating at first, but he’d got used to it. “I know, but now that I think of it, Carson ought to insist that he stays on. He needs to reestablish his authority over James.” 

“Couldn’t Mr. Barrow just stay until after the match, my lord, and then go?”

“That seems rather unkind.” And it wasn’t what he’d told Barrow, back before all this started. “Wouldn’t we be using him?”

“He might not want to stay, my lord. After the unpleasantness.”

Barrow was also far less bold about manipulating him, difficult as it was to credit. Bates did presume on their wartime friendship. Putting his hand up for Bates to take out his cufflink, he said, “I think he will.” He had said he wanted to, after all. “But don’t forget the cricket,” he added, pointing with his raised hand for emphasis. The cricket match came around every year, after all. 

“I won’t, my lord.”

Robert pulled off his tie. “You know, I think we might have a real chance this year.”

#

“You can’t be serious,” Thomas said. He’d been called into Carson’s pantry yet again, this time with Carson, Mrs. Hughes, and Bates all assembled. 

“His lordship wants you to stay on,” Bates said. 

“But—under-butler?” He wasn’t entirely sure what an under-butler did. Downton had never had one before, at least in his time there, and neither had the house where he’d worked before Downton. It might end up being little more than a jumped-up footman—but he’d still be ‘Mr. Barrow.’ 

“We already have enough valets and footmen,” Mrs. Hughes said. 

“Do you accept the position?” Mr. Carson asked. 

“Yes. Yes, I do. Thank you.”

The next morning, the cricket team gathered in the front hall, downstairs and family players both, to hear a few inspiring words from his lordship as team captain. It was the usual stuff about how they should all do their best to uphold the honor of the house, but Thomas found he appreciated it more than he usually did. 

He also appreciated his good spot in the batting order, and the lovely day they had for it. The village green looked like something from the front of a biscuit box, and he found himself thinking how nice it was, instead of how annoying it was that everyone seemed so happy. 

He was at the top of his game, too—even better than last year. During the break, there was a great deal of talk in the tea-tent about how well he’d done. He had to fight through a crowd of people wanting to congratulate him and shake his hand to make it to the tea table. 

“You’re looking much happier than I’ve seen you recently,” Mrs. Patmore observed as she poured him a cup of tea. 

“I’ve got quite a bit to be happy about,” Thomas answered. 

That was about when the police car showed up. Thomas watched in abject horror as the two men in cheap suits approached Lord Grantham and Mr. Carson.

He was going to be arrested in front of the entire bloody village, in the middle of the bloody cricket match.

“Are those—?” Mrs. Hughes asked.

“Yes,” Anna said. “I recognize them. They’re the same ones who arrested Mr. Bates.” She glanced over at him. “Maybe they’re here for something else.”

Thomas sought out Jimmy in the crowd. “What have you done?” He’d hit him, Thomas thought. Right in the middle of his handsome face. Maybe then when he was arrested people would think it was to do with the fight they were having right in front of the police. 

“I didn’t,” Jimmy said. “Really.”

“Then who _did_?”

“ _I_ did,” Alfred said, turning up out of nowhere. “It’s not natural, the way you are. And I don’t care if the rest of them want to brush it under the carpet. I know what’s right and what’s wrong.”

“You bastard,” Thomas snarled. “You utter bastard.” He looked down the pitch. Mr. Carson was holding the policemen at bay, it appeared, and his lordship was heading straight for them. 

Bates came limping out of the scoring box, his dark suit standing out in the sea of white. “What’s going on?” 

“Alfred’s brought in the police,” said Jimmy. 

Bates gave him a look of utter disgust. “You?” Alfred tried to repeat his speech about knowing right from wrong, but Bates cut him off. “Did your aunt put you up to this?”

“No,” he said. “I did it on me own. I can think for myself.”

His lordship arrived before they could get further into it. “Alfred,” he said, in a voice that would have made even Thomas in his worst days quake in his shoes.

Alfred stiffened his spine. “My lord.”

“I’d like to speak with you. Privately.”

“You can use the scoring box, my lord,” Bates suggested quickly. 

“Very good.” Before he went, his lordship met Thomas’s eyes and nodded slightly. 

“He’ll fix it,” Bates said.

Thomas wished he was as confident. He _had_ broken the law, and nearly a dozen people knew it. 

But his lordship came out of the scoring box looking satisfied, and Alfred followed looking much less so. They went back down the pitch for a brief conversation with the policemen, who then started back for their car. 

He didn’t really relax until they drove away—they could, after all, have been going back for handcuffs or something. 

“It’s all sorted out,” his lordship said. “Barrow, come with me a moment.”

Thomas followed him into the scoring box. 

“Well,” his lordship said. “It seems we forgot about Alfred when we were arranging things.”

“Yes, my lord.” He’d overlooked Alfred entirely, as a threat. 

“I’ve calmed him down, and sent the police away with a story that they have little choice but to accept. I did assure Alfred that neither Jimmy nor anyone else will be subject to unwelcome attentions in future. I trust that you will not make a liar of me.”

“Of course, my lord.” Not after he’d already lied to the police for him, certainly.

“Good. The tea break’s nearly over. Try not to let it spoil your game. We need you focused.”

“Yes, my lord. I’ll do my best.”

“See that you do, Barrow. See that you do.”

He did. They went on to win the game—Branson making a surprisingly good showing in the second half; he wasn’t much of a batsman, but he could catch. At supper, most of the talk was about the successes of the game—the excitement of the tea break being elided over in deference to mixed company—and Mr. Carson ended the meal with a toast to the players, upstairs and down.

The only thing was that Mr. Molesley was looking very downcast. No one was making fun of him—but no one was congratulating him or talking about how well he’d done, either. 

Not that he had done well. Not at all. But he had played. 

Thinking very carefully over the examples of kindness he’d seen over the last few days, Thomas planned his next move, and when he was sure he had it right, sought him out as the pudding dishes were being cleared. “Good game, Mr. Molesley.”

“Oh, don’t you start,” Molesley said. “I know I’m terrible. I don’t know why. I know so much about cricket.”

“Well,” he said, “we wouldn’t have had enough men to play if it weren’t for you. So there’s that.” That didn’t sound as nice out loud as it had in his head. “I think it’s brave of you to do your best even though some people might not appreciate it.”

Molesley looked extremely skeptical.

“Really. I’m not being sarcastic. I wish I didn’t care quite so much about always looking like I’m on top of things.” 

“You really mean that?” Molesley asked. “You’re not having me on?”

“I’m not,” Thomas assured him. 

A slow smile spread across Molesley’s face. “Thank you, Mr. Barrow. That’s…surprisingly kind of you to say.”

If he kept practicing, Thomas thought, by next year’s match, he might be better at being kind than Molesley was at cricket.


End file.
